


When the Sun Rises in the East

by prplmunky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Near Future, R plus L equals J, Stargaryen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 27
Words: 96,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prplmunky/pseuds/prplmunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though technically a very slow burning Dany/Arya femslash fic, not knowing the ending is driving me nuts. So this is my interpretation of the events following A Dance with Dragons. Rated M, since the books also are. I apologize in advance, since I am a very sporadic poster. Also, all things ASOIAF belong to GRRM, and possibly HBO...</p><p>**Not compatible with Winds Of Winter**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place shortly after ADwD. And while it is 'technically' going to be a slashfic involving Arya and Dany, I believe one cannot write this world while focusing solely on a handful of characters. So, in summation, this will probably be me trying to finish out the ASOIAF plotline, though some of the paths I think Martin is taking are too long for my tastes so I've altered them, but other than that I try to stay true to the clues he left. This fic is M rated, since I believe the books are as well and I want the writing to reflect that. Because romance is involved I'm going to go with the HBO series and age everyone three years, making her 12 at the start of the book series and at least 14 when she enters the house of Black and White, since travelling through most of Westeros and sailing across the Narrow Sea can't be done in a matter of months.

The red woman watched as the solemn men stood ringed around an oil soaked bier. Despite Lord Snow's preference for the heathen gods of the North, and the Watch's tradition for burying their fallen Commanders in the earth, she was unwilling to take chances where the minions of the Other were concerned. She had prepared the body in the manner taught to her by the Red Temple. When it came time for the final rite, she found herself hesitant and superstitious.

Many myths surrounded the last kiss, most of them relics of ages long past, with heroes rising up from certain death to stave off darkness. She filled her mouth with fire and pressed her lips against his, feeling the cold stillness of them. She exhaled, transmitting the power of red R'hllor into his lifeless corpse. Melisandre found herself holding her breath as she finished, expecting a miracle. A light snow began to fall, as her god answered her with silence.

Bowen Marsh stepped forward into the swirling flakes, clearing his voice as he addressed the huddled brothers.

"He came to us a green boy from Winterfell, wanting to follow in his uncle Benjen's footsteps and become a ranger of the Night's Watch. While he served with us, he became Lord Commander and so much more than he ever dreamed of. His name was Jon Snow, and now his watch is ended."

" _And now his watch is ended_." The other brothers murmured. Some looked relieved, glad to be rid of the troublesome and possibly traitorous Commander. While those who loved Snow looked on with hard eyes, and nursed grudges in their angry hearts. Melisandre wondered which group was the greater danger.

The mourners looked up suddenly as a flash of dark plumage took wing overhead. Above them, the bird that had belonged to the former Lord Commander circled, cawing  _"Snow! Jon Snow!"_

"I'd mourn too, if I'd lost my personal larder." Quipped Dolorous Edd Tollett, the sour faced brother known for his complaining.

Bowen Marsh took the brand he held in his hand and dipped it into a lit torch. The soaked wrappings flamed to life, and he walked toward the pyre, lowering the brand towards the kindling. The raven took offense to this, swooping down and violently pecking at Marsh's outstretched hand.  _"End!"_  It screamed.  _"Jon Snow!"_

Othell Yarwyck stepped in, brushing the furious bird off and snatching Longclaw from a sheath at his hip, he swiped at the air around them, making sure the raven kept its distance.

"And now his watch is ended." Marsh repeated, throwing the torch into the bier and watching it take flame. He held his injured hand tightly as a few errant drops of blood fell to the ground below, freezing as they hit.

The wood caught quickly, and it wasn't long before a thick column of smoke was rising through the falling snow. An unearthly howling split the air, and a sobbing brother bolted through the masses, looking as though he were trying to throw himself onto the flames with his lord. Seized by grief and madness, the brother beat away the burning wood with his bare hands. His tears fell on the scalding ashes, to disappear into a puff of steam.

Edd Tollett and Grenn, the one known as Aurochs, rushed forward to grab him before he grievously injured himself. Together they threw him to the ground, away from the flames, and plunged his hands deep into the freezing snow. Melisandre recognized the one they called Satin, Lord Snow's former steward and squire. His normally glossy hair was tangled and disheveled, and the face of the beautiful boy was blistered and smeared with soot from the fire.

The assembled brothers looked uncomfortable with this display, and a low muttering started among them. Loudest of the voices was the drunken Septon Cellador. "Filthy catamite." He spat.

Othell Yarwyck turned his back to the bonfire as the flames rose higher, shouting down the Septon's accusations. "He is your sworn brother." He turned to the two men helping Satin. "Aurochs, Tollett, have Clydas see to his injuries and bind his hands, he is not to leave his room again this night."

The two men nodded, each placing a shoulder beneath the sobbing Satin's arms. They gingerly lifted him and slowly walked back to the warmth of Castle Black.

Bowen turned and addressed the crowd, "And now, if there are no further interruptions, those who have converted to the Lord of Light have approached me with a wish that the Lady Melisandre speak some words."

The red woman turned toward the flames, her eyes piercing the veil to see the visions R'hllor brought with this fire.

She touched the ruby at her throat. It flared with the power of her god, and the fire burned hotter and brighter in response. Those closest to the flames shied back and covered their faces in fear of being burned. These men knew so little, they should be embracing the flames, for only they could save them from the Long Night and the powers wielded by the Other.

The sun sank below the tall crest of the Wall, plunging the group into the darkness of night. She began her evening prayer. "The night is dark and full of terrors."

"Seven save us!" Burst a voice to her left, startling her.

"Other! It's a wight." Came a different shout. Melisandre turned, confused, in time to see Othell Yarwyck's face freeze into a mask of fear. A figure stepped forth from the flames, charred and smoking. It reached out a hand towards the sword sheathed at Yarwyck's hip. Othell backed away in terror, clamoring for his brothers to come and defend him. The corpse stepped closer, and the burning fingers grazed the smooth stone pommel of Longclaw. Upon touching the hilt, the strength fled the fiery corpse and it toppled to the ground.

Everyone froze, afraid to act. The imminent danger seemed to have passed and no one was issuing orders. Yarwyck started to shout again and Melisandre saw him fling the sword away and into the nearest snow bank. The weapon was hot, and quickly sank deep into the drift. She stepped towards it, curious, and saw that the scabbard had been burned away. The Valyrian steel was afire, the metal burning without being consumed.

The words of the past rang in her ears.

_He will be born amidst smoke and salt._

She saw the soot and tears covering the young Steward's face.

_I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R'hllor shows me only Snow._

Had she erred that greatly? Only Stannis had the true blood of the kings running through his veins...

_Any cat may stare into a fire and see red mice at play._

Her own words echoed back, haunting her. She remembered the countless number of times she had needed to aid Stannis in his conquest, be it with shadows or glamours, while it had seemed that Jon's conquests had needed no help from her at all.

_I've been a fool._

"Stand back." She ordered of the brothers, taking a pinch of powder from within her sleeve and throwing it on the flames. The fire spiked toward the heavens and roared, sending the would be attackers scrambling. She threw herself down near the charred body, needing to know the truth, to see the error of her ways.

"Jon, I am sorry, I could not see before, but my path is clear." Melisandre shook the still body, feeling the residual heat scald her palms.

A moment passed, and nothing happened, and for a brief instant her faith was shaken.

Then a gasp sounded and the corpse's eyes flew open, white pits in a blackened face. The eyes locked with hers, the normal wintry grey of the Starks transmuted into a deep violet. Jon gripped her arm tightly, so much that it pained her.

"She's coming." He whispered.


	2. Cressio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To assuage anyone's fears, I'm not actually doing All of the POV plotlines, though I may insert a new one from time to time if I find it necessary. Martin juggles with 16 balls or so, I'm probably going to stay between 3 and 5. Still trying to figure out how the prologue timeline fits in with the rest of the chapters. I am playing with the idea of Jon preparing up in the North for several months in real time, while all Free Cities/Essos POV chapters are done in the future by six months to a year. Also, don't hit me for introducing an OC, he's not technically out of canon ;)

The striped sails of the Lyseni galley billowed in the wind. Cressio Menaris stood at the prow, feeling the salt spray coat his face and stream down his chin. It had been two years since he last set foot on a ship, and he had been a wholly different person then. Now he was a man, or at least, as much of a man as any eunuch could be, and he had a mission.

He had been no one during his training as an acolyte in the House of Black and White, and that was all to the good. No one had no family, no friends, and certainly no one looking for them. Though he had been headstrong at the start, eventually he realized the true nature of those who chose to serve the Many-Faced God.

_Valar dohaeris_ was as much a part of their training as  _valar morghulis_ ; it had just taken him a long time to accept and understand. Without the chains of servitude, those who gave the Gift were much too dangerous. People themselves are fickle, treacherous, and power hungry. Had the Gift not come at such a great price, there would not be a man left standing anywhere from the western coast of the Seven Kingdoms to the Shadow of Asshai.

Cressio, however, was not here to give anyone the Gift, at least not yet. He had been sent as an emissary of the Iron Bank of Braavos. His job was to present this supposed Queen of the Andals an offer of aid. The Iron Bank would assist her in taking back the throne, provided she would continue repayment of the Crown's debt.

They had come to him shortly after he had learned to cast his first true glamour.

_"Who are you?" They had asked the acolyte._

_"No one."_

_And they had looked for lies, as they had a thousand times before._

_This time, however, there was no reprimand, no accusation of falsehood. This time, there was only service._

_"Do you know of the Iron Bank?" They had asked._

_"Everyone knows of the Iron Bank."_

_"Just so." They had said. "Everyone needs the Iron Bank, but the Iron Bank needs no one. Who are you?"_

_"No one."_

_"_ Valar morghulis."

"Valar dohaeris."

They gave the acolyte a name and a face and a uniform and sent Cressio out to find the Mother of Dragons. Intelligence gathered around the queen suggested that after taking Mereen with the help of a company of sellswords, she was heading northwest towards the Free Cities. What business the Breaker of Chains had in the Free Cities, where slavery had been outlawed since they had fled Old Valyria, no one knew. It was for precisely this reason that they were sending Cressio, so that no one could find out.

The Iron Bank had booked him passage on a merchanter's galley heading south to Lys, and from there he would ferry to the mainland, buy a horse and find the Targaryan queen at all costs. The Iron Bank had meant at all costs, they did not joke when it came to gold. He had been provisioned for any and all financial situations. Cressio had numerous chests of gold and silver in addition to a sheaf of scrolls bearing the Bank's seal. These scrolls were good for any amount he cared to write, provided the bearer had not taken them from his corpse and his personal phrase and seal were affixed to them.

Sailing this late into Autumn, or Winter, (depending on which rumors you believed) was treacherous at best and thoroughly deadly at the worst. The sailors onboard were a superstitious folk, and prayed to any gods who might listen while sailing in sight of the coast as often as they could.

Cressio left them to their gods and their prayers. He had learned long ago that the only god who made any sense was the nameless, Many-Faced God of Death. He would retreat to his cabin at night when they lit the nightfires to R'hllor. Tossing fitfully, he would try to sleep.

Cressio had given up saying his prayers long ago, for they were burned deep into his heart now, and besides, those words belonged to someone else. It was not the chanting that kept him from sleeping, but the dreams.

Try as he might, he would see the forest and the pack every night. He still exhilarated in the feeling of power the Alpha gave him. She was so much stronger and faster than her little grey cousins. She could take down man or horse or aurochs, it mattered not, so long as the hunt was fierce and the kill triumphant. Cressio's heart would soar with her, elated as they gorged on meat, the taste of lifeblood hot on the tongue.

This night was different, it had been a large, inky black destrier. Running through the forest before the pack, the big animal had slipped and broken a foreleg, screaming as it went down. As the night wolf charged to rip out the beast's throat and end its suffering before the pack descended, she was bowled over by another form.

It was another wolf, sleek and shaggy and grey-brown, and just as large as she was. Her instinct was to fight, to dominate, she growled before her nose caught up with her.  _Pack_. It said to her.  _Home._  She sniffed the air hesitantly, still not believing it was one of her missing brothers.

The newcomer backed up, not bristling, but not submitting either. The golden eyes met hers and a name tried to form, some useless man sound that meant nothing. She growled in frustration as a raven came swooping down, quorking. The she-wolf snapped at it halfheartedly before it landed next to her, preening its feathers as it examined her with beady black eyes.

" _Wall."_ It screamed at her. " _Jon. Wall!_ "

Cressio woke with a start, drenched in sweat. His heart raced as two names stuck fast to his tongue. In reflex, he reached out in the pitch dark for his sword. "Needle." He whispered, as he forgot himself.

But this was another sword, the Braavo's blade and dagger the Bank had given him. Needle belonged to that girl Arya Stark, buried underneath the stepstones of the House of Black and White.

Arya Stark was dead, Cressio knew.

He was certain of it, having done the deed himself. But her brothers had need of her. Her pack was calling.

Who would answer?


	3. Daenerys

Khal Jhaqo had found her, surrounded by his blood riders. Mago rode at his side, looking down at her from his mount. His eyes were arrogant and cruel.

"She is a beast, my khal." Mago said, unsheathing his _arakh_  as he slid from his stallion. "Let me take her like one, and show her the mercy I gave the Lamb Woman."

Khal Jhaqo was not so incautious as his blood rider, he did not rule a  _khalasaar_  through blood and cruelty alone. This  _khaleesi_  may have fallen far from her rightful place at  _Vaes Dothrak_ , but he had heard rumors of her conquests, and the fierce looking dragon curled behind her was enough to give any man pause.

"Wait, blood of my blood," Khal Jhaqo held up a hand, "let us hear her words." He spoke loudly, knowing Daenerys could hear and understand him.

She straightened in response. Hearing Mago speak so casually of the cruelty he inflicted upon Eroeh served to strengthen the vows she swore so long ago.

"I have one word for you, Khal Jhaqo, who took so many from my  _khalasaar_ , and the blood of your blood, who stole from me those that I would have saved-"

"She was nothing!" Mago spat. "I honored her."

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. Mago had angered the dragon, and all thoughts of patience flew from Daenerys. The Targaryen words rang in her mind: Blood and Fire.

"I have one word for you." She told them.  _"Dracarys._ " Dany spoke the command softly, almost casually, as she waited for a response. She watched them intently.

Jhaqo and his blood riders looked to her, confused. They were unfamiliar with High Valyrian, since she had hatched her dragons after they fled her  _khalasaar_.

"What is this word?" She heard Khal Jhaqo ask, as the huge black bulk of Drogon shifted beside her. The dragon coiled as he took a breath, the grass crackling underfoot as hundreds of pounds of flesh prepared itself. Dany gave them a thin smile as she watched the expressions of the Dothraki change from arrogance to naked fear. They started to wheel their mounts around as they realized what was coming, but by then it was far too late. Drogon had opened his mouth and was prepared to send the Dothraki to ride across the eternal night sky, much sooner than they had ever expected.

" _Dracarys_  is of my mother tongue, Khal Jhaqo. It is my last word, and the last word you will ever know." Dany told them, and the very air around her burned.

Suddenly men and horses were screaming. Dothraki mounts reared back and threw their riders, both man and beast aflame . The worst of the blast had been directed at Mago, since he had been standing closest to her. Only a pile of charred ash lay where he had stood. Daenerys strode through the dead and dying, walking closer to where Khal Jhaqo had fallen. She stepped barefoot across corpse and ember and burning grass, feeling nothing. She would establish her rightful role as _khaleesi_  the Dothraki way, through conquest.

Jhaqo did not die quickly, instead reaching up from the tall grasses to grasp at her leg as she approached. "Daenerys." He beckoned to her, his voice raspy. "My Queen."

Dany looked again, and it was not the rival Jhaqo standing under her feet, but Daario. The once flamboyant sellsword's flesh was crisped and blackened. It sloughed off his body as he moved, leaving arms and face and hands cleaved straight to the bone. His dancing blue eyes were gone now, all that remained were melted pools of candle wax running down his face.

He struggled as he tried to raise his arakh to her in one last salute. The golden wanton had turned liquid in the heat, and the molten metal dribbled out through his fingers. "A thousand woman," Daario said, "but only one dragon." He gave a pained gasp through lipless teeth. "I could have loved you." He professed, and his death rattle followed soon after, whistled out through the chink in his gold tooth.

" _ **KHALEESI**_." A hand shook her roughly, freeing her from the carnage. "You are safe, it is only a dream."

Daenerys sat up quickly, her heart racing. "Missandei?" She asked, confused, "Where am I?"

"We are marching towards Pentos, your grace." The scribe reminded her. "The Windblown and the Unsullied and the khalasaar you returned with from the Dothraki Sea."

"And Daario?" She asked anxiously.

"Dead, after the trap set by the Yunkai." The Naathi girl was starting to sound worried. "Are you feeling well, your grace?" This was not the first time she had needed to remind her queen when and where she was.

"Yes, go back to sleep. I am fine, it was only a dream." Dany remembered the assault on the Yunkish seige lines now, remembered how the wind had felt as it whistled through the short hair coating her scalp as she rode Drogon. She remembered how powerful she had felt as she urged him on, speeding downwards in a dizzying plummet towards the advancing army. The rush of heat and excitement she felt as he breathed fire onto the front lines.

It was not until it was too late that she realized the infantry was made up of slaves and hostages that had been tied into formation, chained together hand to hand and foot to foot. The knowledge that she had killed Daario herself had been bitter, but the vengeance she wrought upon the slave lords of Yunkai had been paid back in tenfold. Not a man survived who had once laid siege to her city.

A large black dragon flying purposefully at the head of an unknown  _khalasaar_  could only mean one thing. Ser Barristan had acted quickly, opening the gates to Mereen and unleashing the Unsullied. The eunuchs made short work of the starved and plague ridden soldiers of Yunkai. When they found themselves surrounded by the unnaturally stalwart Unsullied and twenty thousand Dothraki screamers, the slave soldiers lost heart almost immediately.

Many turned on their masters, hoping to gain forgiveness and freedom from the Breaker of Chains. More tried to run, but were chained together or trod upon by their brothers in arms. Those that remained to fight were swept to dust when the Windblown joined the fray and cleared out anyone wearing a Yunkish badge. They used such thorough and cold blooded efficiency that it would have shocked Daenerys, had her heart had not already become so hardened during the battle.

Later Selmy had told her the cost of binding the Windblown to their cause. Pentos was where her dear friend Illyrio lived, and Illyrio had given her many things. She had been conflicted until she remembered Quaithe's words to her.

_Remember who you are, Daenerys, the dragons know, do you?_

Blood and fire were her words and now they must be how she lived.

Dany had dreamt of a peaceful rule in Mereen, a city full of prosperous freed men learning to thrive. But that dream was lost to her now. She was the blood of the dragon, and dragons do not sow.

The night sky was fading, and light began to fill the desert sky. _A new day dawns to kill the old, just as a new queen must rise._  Daenerys wrapped herself in a sheet from her bed linens and rose to greet the dawn. The small framed Naathi girl padded after her with soft footfalls.

"How many days left before we reach Volantis?" She asked Missandei.

"Four, _khaleesi_ , so long as we maintain pace."

"Four days." Daenerys repeated, "Four days until the Free Cities fear my name." She told the scribe. "My brother had waited so long for this day to come, it feels strange to meet it by myself."

"He would have been proud of you, your grace." The girl supplied. "Everyone is."

This got a smile from Daenerys, "Everyone is not my brother. Viserys would have been mad with jealousy and wroth with everyone he spoke to."

Missandei wrinkled her nose at this. "That does not sound very kinglike to me, your grace."

"He never was." Daenerys sighed. "It was the gods' cruel joke on him, to give him the birthright to rule but not the skills nor power to attain it."

"But he is not you, your grace, he is not the Breaker of Chains, nor the Mother of Dragons. He did not conquer the Great Grass Sea to become  _khaleesi_  or seat the throne of the oldest cities of Essos. Only you have done these things."

"Yes, only I have done these things." Dany agreed. "Though once, a long time ago, I was just a girl. A girl who lived in Braavos, in a house with a red door and a lemon tree in the courtyard. This girl did not wish for iron chairs or far off lands, only to be left in peace to grow up and become a good woman."

"But you have grown up to become a great woman, your grace."

"I have," she agreed, "but now this great woman must go back and destroy that young girl's dreams for good, and mayhaps slay the first man to show her kindness."

"A hard decision, your grace," The scribe admitted. "I do not envy you."

"No one should," Daenerys sighed. "I do not know why anyone seeks to play this game. I would set this burden down if I could."

"What game is this, your grace?"

_I must not look back. If I look back, I am lost._

"The only game, Missandei." Daenerys told her. "It is called the game of thrones."


	4. Victarion

Men dressed in strange clothing stood guard along the gangways of the Mereenese docks. They bore masks upon their faces carved in the likeness of insects and animals. Victarion collapsed the bronze tube of the Myrish eye he had been staring through. Two score Ironmen commanded the  _Shrike_ , recently repainted back to  _Dove_  for the purpose of this ruse. Moqorro and the dusky woman stood behind Victarion at the prow. They were key in his next act and he wanted to keep them close. He had placed Ralf the Limper in command of his fleet while Victarion himself would land the cog in the Mereenese port. The lack of any banners bearing the Ghiscari Harpy of Slaver's Bay gave him hope. Victarion's silver queen may very well have been waiting for him, all he need do was dock his ship and go to her.

The iron born crew worked quickly. They were on edge in this foreign and fabled city, much more used to raiding than asking permission to dock. The cog bobbed lightly against the dock as they pulled into the birth and secured the ship's tie lines. Six of the animal guards approached the ship, hailing them in a tongue Victarion did not recognize.

He turned to his red priest. "What did they say?"

"They say you are very bold," Moqorro told him, "and ask what business you have in the city of Mereen."

"Tell them I have come to pay homage to their silver queen." He raised the horn high above his head, letting the sun glint off its dark surface and cryptic runes. "Tell them I have found a gift for her and her dragons."

Moqorro stepped towards the railing and shouted down to the Mereenese defenders, in a voice that sounded like he was gargling rocks. The man wearing a jackal mask, whom Victarion presumed to be the leader, held conference with the other five. There appeared to be a fierce discussion, ending with one man gesticulating and growling angrily. In the end the jackal mask won out, and they called an invitation up to the crew of  _Dove_.

"He says that the silver queen is marching for conquest."

"She isn't even here?" Victarion was incredulous. "Why are we wasting time bandying words with these fools then?"

Moqorro held up a hand, indicating patience. "She is not here," he told Victarion, "but her noble servant Skahaz mo Kandaq rules in her stead."

"Then I shall slay her husband in single combat." Greyjoy growled, reaching for the axe strapped across his back.

"Calm yourself." The priest reminded him. "Hizdahr is the husband, Skahaz the servant, he holds her husband hostage against the old and noble houses of Mereen. He is the one we will speak with, and, if we are successful, he is the one who will lead us to the dragons."

"The mother leaves without her children." Victarion mused. "Do not worry, my dragons, your father has come for you." He gave orders to his men to guard the ship at all costs, and then he, his dusky woman and his priest walked down the gangway and followed the men back to the palace where Skahaz was holding court.

As they travelled, Victarion learned what had happened through the translated words of Moqorro. The men explained that they were known as the Brazen Beasts, and told him of the troubles they were having maintaining order with the dragons roaming through the city. Mostly they kept to themselves within their lairs, but every so often they would emerge to hunt. The mere sight of a soaring shadow falling over a busy marketplace would cause riots to break out as everyone tried to be the first to find cover.

Finally they came upon the gates leading to the palace courtyard. Victarion looked up and saw the grisly remains of what had once been children. The crows had picked the bodies almost clean and maggots dripped from what little flesh remained. "What is the meaning of this?" He asked the Brazen Beasts.

The jackal mask told Moqorro that it had been a practice of Daenerys herself to hold children from each of the noble families hostage to ensure the continued good behavior of each of the great houses. With the great queen's soft heart, however, none of the children came to harm.

All that had changed when she returned from the Dothraki sea. She had left Skahaz the Shavepate in command of Mereen and given him leave to rule as he saw fit. The Sons of the Harpy and the deaths of Unsullied and freed men had ended almost immediately when he took the lives of two children. No more had been necessary.

The entered the plaza leading into the palace's main audience chamber, where Skahaz was hearing this day's petitioners. He had just dismissed a last handful of people who claimed that the largest dragon, the fierce black one known as Drogon, had eaten the majority of their flocks. Skahaz dismissed them all for robbers, since it was well known that the dragon followed Daenerys' army, possibly in hopes of eating men and their cavalry chargers whole, a meal much more satisfying than lamb.

"Noble Skahaz!" The jackal mask called out, in a Ghiscari growl. "This man comes from Westeros and claims to bear a gift for our queen."

"Oh?" The Shavepate asked. "And what gift is this?"

"Introduce me." Victarion urged of his red priest, feeling lost in this exchange.

"Great and noble Skahaz, seneschal of Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and Queen of the Andals. I bring to you a man who has travelled half the world, who has sailed past Valyria and the Smoking Sea to bring to you a lost treasure from the ruined city. This man is Lord Victarion Greyjoy, a great man amongst the Ironborn, and the wielder of the Dragonbinder." When he finished his speech, he gave a flourish, taking full advantage of the thick black robes that Victarion had provided him with. Sensing his cue, Victarion set his face in a fierce and determined mask and raised the horn once more, letting the instrument speak for itself.

A hush fell over those left in the court. "Is this true?" Skahaz asked the priest, "you propose to tame the monsters?" He leaned forward upon the ebony bench Daenerys had left.

"Take us to the dragons," Moqorro offered, "and we shall show you."

Skahaz took a moment to don his travelling garb, and dispatched the jackal captain to find him a score of Brazen Beasts to escort him and their guests to the great pyramid. They travelled slowly through the city, which looked mostly deserted, though it was midday and the air was cool.  _I shall give them back their city,_ Victarion told himself,  _and they shall love me for it._

The group turned down a broad alleyway and the ruin of the great pyramid came into view. Victarion's mouth went dry, a hole five times taller than any many had been burned into the ancient bricks of the pyramid. The stone had melted and run, leaving boulders the size of an an aurochs warped and twisted into grotesque shapes. Nothing burned hotter than dragonfire, it was the substance that forged Valyrian steel, that cast the Iron Throne and burned the towers of Harrenhal. Nothing was more powerful, and soon it would be his, if he had the strength to take it.

"This dragon is known as Rhaegal," Skahaz explained, "call him by name and take your life into your hands. If you refuse, a few hours with my Brazen Beasts will make you wish you had called him instead of lying to me." The Shavepate and his guards kept their distance, waiting for Victarion and his party to approach the dragon's lair.

"And you are certain that this will work?" He asked the priest, his voice a fierce whisper, though he spoke the Common tongue.

"The Lord of Light reveals the truth," Moqorro told him, "it is his mortal servants who err."

"Do not wrong me, wizard, if I fail, your life is forfeit with mine own."

The red priest shrugged, unconcerned. "If the Lord of Light wills it, I shall obey. Do as I have told you, and you shall revel in the glory I have seen in the fires."

Victarion girded himself and took a breath. "Rhaegal!" He shouted into the mouth of the cave, hearing his voice echo off the rocks. His blood ran cold as he heard something massive shift within the darkness. He handed the horn to the dusky woman, who stood petrified at his side. "Blow it." He ordered.

She answered with a shake of her head. Victarion had no time for this; the shadows were shifting, giving way to a wall of shining green scales.

"Blow the horn, or you die." He threatened, pulling her to him. He yanked the knife from his belt and held it against her neck, drawing a thin line of blood across it in his haste.

The dragon's head emerged from the mouth of the cave. His eyes were hypnotic, luminous bronze orbs that shone as brightly as the sun.

"Blow." He growled, and she did, be it from shock of seeing the dragon or his knife at her throat.

It started as a small gasp, but once she breathed life into the horn, it tapped into her own and drew forth all the air from her lungs, creating an ominous wailing sound that ripped through the ears and minds of everyone present. The horn and her skin began to glow, growing bright and glossy, and for a moment, it looked as though both horn and woman were carved from dragonglass.

"Now, do it now!" The priest yelled, and Victarion ripped his blade across the woman's neck, sending a deluge of blood cascading down his arms and chest.

"Rhaegal!" Victarion shouted, holding the woman's convulsing body to him as her blood drenched him, it boiled and sizzled where it coated his left hand and forearm. "By blood and fire I called you and by blood and fire I bind you!" He took his burned hand and wrenched the Dragonbinder from her charred lips. His skin split and smoked where he touched the horn and the Dragonbinder grew fiery hot. On the horn's surface, the Valyrian runes glowed with a light that was all their own. He shoved the woman from him and watched her fall to the ground, having no more need of her pitiful corpse. She shivered once and then went still, smoke rising from both her mouth and the huge rent slashed across her throat.

Victarion dropped the knife to the warped stones as went forth to claim his prize. "Rhaegal," he crooned, "mighty Rhaegal. Your mother hatched you, but your father has come to claim you." He stretched out his free hand, the hand he had used to slay his dusky woman, to show his dragon that he meant no harm. The green and bronze scaled beast stepped out of the cave, his neck and tail and body stretching and uncoiling in a fluid motion that drew the eye. Rhaegal was much larger than Victarion had ever imagined. Left alone in his lair for months, the dragon had grown as large as the Iron Fleet's reaving ships.

"Come to me, Rhaegal, come to me and we shall make the world tremble." Victarion promised. A crack of noise split the air, and suddenly the dragon's wings had unfurled, larger than the sails on the cog they had brought. Behind him, Skahaz and the Brazen Beasts cowered in fear, only Moqorro and Victarion appeared uncowed by the majestic size and ferocity of the mythic creature.

"You and I, Rhaegal, we will take Daenerys home." The dragon cocked his head at him, as if considering the offer.

Suddenly Rhaegal's mouth split open, revealing a hundred razor sharp and blackened teeth. Victarion's view went so deep that he could see the furnace fire kept in the belly of the dragon.

For a moment he almost felt fear, but then he remembered who he was. Victarion Greyjoy carried two gods with him, the Drowned God and red R'hllor.  _Nothing can stand before two gods, neither man nor beast._

He raised his voice and the Dragonbinder, issuing one last command before embracing his destiny. "Fly me, Rhaegal."

Quick as a snake, the dragon's head shot forward and the wings snapped shut.

Skahaz and his Brazen Beasts threw up their hands to cover their faces. After that farce with the Prince of Dorne, Skahaz was certain that he was about to witness another brave fool become a meal. Victarion's laughter split the air, and when they looked up, the scene before them was beyond belief.

Rhaegal's head lay on the ground, with Victarion's hand resting lightly upon the scaled crest of one brow. A wing was cocked towards the kraken lord. The dragon looked for all the world like a stallion waiting to be mounted.

_The most beautiful woman in the world,_ Victarion thought to himself, laughing madly as he lightly petted his beast,  _and I shall ride a dragon by her side._


	5. Bran

"Jon!"

Bran's eyes flew open into total darkness. His face was wet and his throat hurt immensely. Slowly his sight began to adjust to the intense blackness, outlines revealing themselves in the gloom. Seated next to him, tied eternally to his weirwood throne, was the Three-Eyed Crow.

"They killed him." Bran gasped. "What use has all our planning been if Jon is only a pile of ash?"

"Calm yourself, my young prince," the greenseer instructed. His voice was low and measured, soft as the whisper of fallen leaves, yet insistent as a stream wearing down rock. "What you see is not always certain, look again and find your answer."

Bran took a deep breath and settled back into his earthen cradle. It had only been a few turns of the moon, and already small roots were curling up through the soil and molding to his body. Bran felt like he belonged in that seat, which made him at turns exhilarated and terrified. He wanted to be a greenseer, to see with a thousand eyes and one. He wished to surrender his useless legs and fly with the ravens, to soar high above Westeros and see things no other human could.

But if he did that, if Bran succumbed to the wishes of the Children and his mentor, what would be left at the end? Would he still be human? Would he be happy living beyond his normal span as part of a weirwood? These were questions he couldn't answer, and until he could, his cozy, loam lined throne would instill more terror than comfort.

That thought was for later. Now was the time for Bran to focus and extend his senses. There were many ravens he could inhabit, but none felt quite like this one. He cast his Sight south, but only slightly, just enough to find a particularly scavenger hovering around a monolith forged of ice. The bonfire he had seen earlier had burnt down to embers, but something seemed wrong. There was no pile of ash atop the bier, and a trail of muddy footprints came forth from the coals. It was as if something very hot had walked out of the fire.

The men had dispersed from the pyre and only a few remained, whispering amongst themselves. Bran swooped down lower, catching a few errant words.

"-it's wrong, bloody unnatural if you ask me."

"Fool's errand, it was, letting him out. He'll bring them right to us."

"'Let him'? I didn't see you trying to stop the great flaming bastard. Besides, he's only going to the godswood."

"S'no godswood Snow's after, it's them White Walkers he wants."

_The godswood._  Bran needed to hurry, if the found the grove in time he might be able to speak to Jon, despite what the Crow had told him.

He sifted through a hundred different eyes, both beast and tree, before he found the pair he wanted. These weirwoods were very old, their memories stretching back all the way to the Age of Heroes. Bran was having trouble finding the present moment. He saw dozens of Northerners, each bearing some Stark feature, be it eyes or hair or jaw, but none matched who he was looking for. Jon, he told himself, I want Jon. The flashes of memory finally stopped, and Bran was left staring at an empty clearing.  _This is useless_ , Bran prepared himself to leave the vision,  _I'll never be a good seer._

"This is useless, Lord Snow." A woman's voice rang out, echoing Bran's sentiment. Her speech was warm and melodic, flavored with inflections from the far East. "There are no gods here, only minions of the Other."

Footsteps crunched through the newly fallen snow, and Bran got a glimpse of his half brother. His skin was mostly charred, save his sword arm, which looked untouched by the fire. Jon staggered barefoot across the freezing earth, save for a sword slung across his back, he was naked as his nameday.

"One moment, that is all I am asking for before I surrender my future to this red god of yours." Jon growled, looking at the tree's face. "Be silent for just one moment."

Bran could see that the fire had burnt his hair down to the roots, Jon's eyes were different as well. He had been the spitting image of a Stark, right down to the gray eyes that matched their father's. As Jon looked into the face of the weirwood, Bran could see those familiar eyes were gone, and in their place was something new. The sight of that smokey violet stare sent chills down his spine. He was in the presence of something old, something with great power.

Jon drew the sword from its smoking wooden scabbard and placed it before the tree, tip down, before forcing the blade deep into the snow. He kept pushing, melting through hard packed ice and hoarfrost. He didn't stop until the blade pierced frozen earth. The heat of the sword was so intense that Bran could feel it in the roots of his tree. Jon released the blade, leaving it to stand sentinel before him. Only then, with what looked to be extreme effort, did he kneel before the tree that was Bran.

"Someone saved me." Jon told the tree. "This woman says her god brought me back because I'm some kind of savior, some promised prince." He looked as though he was struggling with something. "When I was in the fire, I saw things. I saw myself in armor made of black ice, holding a flaming sword, as I fought off the Others. It was a dream I had once before, but then there was a new vision as well. I saw some woman, with white hair and piercing eyes, flying North with her dragons." Jon looked at the sword before him, glowing softly with a ruddy heat. "I have the sword, but I don't know how to find the rest of it. Help me." Jon pleaded with the tree. "Guide me, where do I go from here? Do I go south and save Arya from that bastard? To Mother Mole and Eastwatch? How to I stop them?" He looked deep into the face of the weirwood and Bran felt as though he were talking right to him.

"Come north." Bran blurted, forgetting that those in the weirwood groves could hear only the whisperings of the red leaves.

Jon jerked his head with a start, turning an ear as he listened.

"You see, Jon Snow." The woman behind him proclaimed. "Your gods only answer you with cold silence."

"Be silent!" Jon barked at her, before whispering. " _You know nothing_." With this, Jon seemed more centered, and he took a deep breath before his request. "Tell me again, I'm listening."

Could it be true? Could Jon actually understand the language of the weirwoods? Bran had to make it short, short enough that he could get his message across.

"Nightfort. There's a door in Nightfort, come north, we can help."

Jon closed his eyes, and Bran began to panic, maybe he hadn't heard correctly. He found himself shouting through the tree, and the winds picked up around them. "There's a door!" He screamed. "A door in the Nightfort!"

Jon's eyes opened, he was done listening. He rose from the ground and stepped back from the tree before retrieving Longclaw. He slung it across his back and tried to sheath it in the smoking wood. Half the scabbard fell to the ground in a pile of ash when the sword seated itself, but the wood held.

"We're leaving." Jon told her.

"Did your trees answer?" She asked him, mockingly.

"They did, though I've yet to hear from this god of yours." He told her. "We go to Nightfort."


	6. Jon

Jon flipped through the ancient and decaying pages of yet another tome that had been brought up from Sam's library. Though he no longer thought of himself as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, everyone else was still treating him the same, most especially Satin. The boy had come to him, attentive as ever, to ask Jon what he needed. The only orders Jon gave were to find any books Sam had left strewn about regarding the history of the Watch or Nightfort in general. The curly haired youth had returned with a stack of volumes so high that Jon scarce wondered how he had found his way back, since they reached past his eyes. After depositing his collection on a low table near Jon, the steward dismissed himself immediately. Jon had little doubt of where he went.

"Probably off to get more salve." He grumbled to himself.

"The boy cares for you." A low, melodic voice answered. "Is that such hardship?"

"No," Jon had given up fighting with her, "I suppose not."

The red woman had been spending more and more time in his presence lately, and he could not say that he minded. After the stabbing, Ghost had gone completely wild. It was only the thick, iron banded wood of Donal Noye's chambers that had kept him from breaking loose and ripping out the throats of every man of the Watch. Even that barricade had almost failed as Jon had returned to his quarters, seeing flashes of slavering teeth and feral red eyes through splintered wood. A few moments longer and the wolf would have been out amongst his Brothers like a fox among hens.

Before retiring to his bed and both Satin and Melisandre's ministrations, Jon had asked for one of the builders to reinforce the door. At first the man was reluctant, but fulfilling the wish of his deceased and recently risen Lord Commander by putting the direwolf behind another few inches of hardwood seemed to be a better option than having the deadly creature out and prowling around Castle Black while he slept.

Ghost had proven to be an excellent sentry, keeping out all enemies, real or imagined, with the strange exceptions of Satin and Melisandre. Jon was glad for it. The men who weren't convinced that he was a risen Other seemed to think that he was now some sort of invincible juggernaut, able to flaunt even death itself. The truth of the matter was that the pyre  _had_  burned him, all of him, save his sword arm, which was miraculously free of damage, and the burned skin pained him horribly. Satin had brought him dreamwine and potions from Clydas, who was functioning as their healer in Maester Aemon's absence. Jon had shunned them all, save for a skin of sour Dornish red. He used the foul drink to dull the pain in place of the stupefying effects brought on by dreamwine and milk of the poppy. He was running out of time, and he needed to learn everything there was to know about the Nightfort.

Jon let out a sigh as he slammed the crumbling cover to the book he had been reading shut.  _Lord Commanders and their Histories_. It was a most thrilling volume, full of dry, detailed accounts of each Commander, what they spent on food, arms and clothing, and how many men they had sworn into the Watch. Very few records were kept about the personal lives of the Commanders before they joined the Brotherhood. Many men that were listed even lacked family names and house affiliations.

_What better way to hide their crimes or bastardy_ , Jon thought.

He didn't know why he was looking at the histories. The heinous crimes of Night's King, along with his true name, had been stricken from all the Watch's written records. He just knew that he needed to find out everything there was to know about the castle of Nighfort before he left, because when he finally started his journey, there would be no turning back. Once he left the confines of his room at Castle Black, he would be dubbed at best a deserter, and at worst a traitor, plotting the downfall of mankind and selling secrets to the Others. There would be no library while he was on the run, no breadcrumbs and marked chapters from Sam or Maester Aemon to guide him, just his wits and Longclaw, which was currently propped in a corner of the room that was all bare stone. The sword had burned through three different scabbards since the transformation, and Jon had given up hope about doing anything except letting it sit while he was convalescing.

A rustling by the hearth broke Jon from his musings as he found himself looking up into identical pairs of watchful red eyes. Ever since his revival, the woman had stuck by him close as a burr on a wool jerkin. He had been suspicious at first, but her counsel was sound, so long as they weren't discussing other godly entities besides her precious R'hllor, and he was beginning to rely on her uncanny insight into the goings on around the castle. She also seemed to know much and more about what was happening regarding the current occupants of the Nightfort.

Queen Selyse and her veritable army of Queen's men had left the night of the pyre, and already the red priestess was reporting of disturbing visions given to her by the sacred flames. Jon had instructed Satin to keep a brazier lit in his room at all times. He was worried that the damage from the fire might have weakened him and made him susceptible to chill. Once the fire was lit, however, the chill seemed not to matter. Day after day, the soft youth brought Jon healing salves and dutifully coated him head to toe. Each day, Jon had hoped that his skin had recovered enough to feel hot or cold, but he was disappointed each time. He did not feel it now any more than he had when he had journeyed to the godswood. He had not felt the chill of the snow through his bare soles or naked body, and the fiery brazier that Satin kept stoked all day and night was as real to him as the painted flames of a mummer's backdrop. He found the knowledge slightly jarring, but no more so than any of the other fantastic revelations he had been experiencing. After the Others, giants, deathbound visions of lady dragon riders and wildlings crossing the Wall to join the Watch, his inability seemed a mere afterthought.

The red woman seemed to enjoy the flames, if Jon did not. She spent many an hour staring into them, looking for her portents of things to come. No longer would she spend time rallying the men of the Watch and the Free Folk to Stannis' lost cause, instead she sequestered herself in Jon's quarters, repeating the advice she'd given him before. Not about daggers in the dark, that prophecy had already come to pass, but about the fool Patchface, who trailed after Queen Selyse's daughter like a lost puppy. Always, the sight of him was accompanied by skulls and blood dripping from the mouth. After the third time, Jon had agreed to extreme caution when dealing with the queen, the princess or her fool, as it seemed to be the only way to get the priestess to stop warning him.

Though he felt foolish for doing so, Jon found himself resorting to the stories he remembered from his childhood. Old Nan had told him unbelievable tales of the sacrifices made by Night's King to his cold, blue eyed love. Those stories had also included such far-fetched characters as Mad Axe and the Rat Cook, with his famous Prince and Bacon Pie.

While some of them regarding the Nightfort had been too fantastic to believe, Jon remembered the reports Sam had given him regarding the gifts from the Children of the Forest to the Watch. Three hundred dragonglass arrowheads every year couldn't have just been for show.

Jon wondered if the tales that used to keep his brother Bran riveted had the same kernel of truth at their center. Many of the stories, particularly Mad Axe, involved mysterious creatures arising from the depths of the castle. This common thread couldn't have come from nowhere. Many builders added secret rooms and escape passages to the huge fortresses they built, and he believed the Nightfort was no exception.

"Now if only I could find it." Jon muttered to himself, grabbing another volume from the stack and wrenching it open. The sudden flurry of motion attracted the other two occupants of the room. Ghost padded over and sat next to the bed, staring up at him expectantly, as if he were waiting for a command. The red woman also rose from her place near the hearth. She did not approach, but instead spoke his fears aloud.

"Why do you hesitate?" She asked Jon. "You chose to trust in faith earlier, why abandon it now?" Melisandre cocked her head, her crimson eyes boring holes through him. "You felt their power out in the grove. When you leave your fate to god, there is no middle ground. Trust or do not, but you cannot waver."

"Then we leave in the morning." Jon decided impulsively. "My injuries be damned."

The woman looked him over critically. "Those are no mortal wounds." She told him. "Lesser men have perished from such flames, yet you survive, have you thought about the reason for this yet, Lord Snow?"

"I'm no lord." He shot back irritably. "The pyre and my sworn brothers made sure of that."

"Do not be so quick to cast off the trappings of power." Melisandre warned him. "Title or no, men believe what they will, as must you. I ask you again, have you thought about the reason for your survival."

Jon cast his eyes down to the worn black bedspread. He had thought about it briefly, in fits and starts, but once ideas started to form, he cast them off as insanity. He could not be an Other, the cleansing power of fire saw to that. Had he been a servant of Winter, he would have burnt up as quickly as that wight in Commander Mormont's chambers. There was something in her questing stare that he misliked. Suspicion grew in Jon, but he continued to play out the farce she seemed to want.

"Something brought me back, be it your god or mine own, but I cannot continue as a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch." Some plans had been brewing in the back of Jon's mind. Most of them included a journey North of the Wall via the Nightfort, if the weirwood was to be trusted. A few he dismissed as folly, a Southern journey would most definitely mark him as a deserter, and the Southron lords would either send him away as a madman or kill him outright after he told them his unbelievable truths. "The places I must travel welcome no Crows, deserter or otherwise."

"You are cleverer than you know, Jon Snow."

Jon looked at her, wondering if he was ready to hear the secrets she kept swirling behind those unsettling eyes. What was the riddle wrapped within his resurrection? He was certain she knew.

Jon opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted by the slam of his newly reinforced door.

"M'lord!" Satin called cheerfully, "I've returned with more salve."

"Pack it." Jon ordered, gruffly, stopping the boy in his tracks. "Along with my weapons and all of my warm travelling clothes."

"And your sword?" Satin paused in his preparations, staring at the glowing steel propped neatly in the corner.

"Never mind the sword." Jon assured him, waving his steward away from the wall. "I'll take care of it."

"Ah, anything else?" Satin asked, carefully setting his tin of salve on a nearby table.

"Food, from the kitchens," Jon requested, "enough for a month. Load all this onto a couple of garrons from the stables, hearty ones."

"At once, m'lord." He scratched his mop of curls, suddenly thoughtful. "If someone should ask, what is all this for, m'lord?"

"The Lady Melisandre has given me a change of heart." Jon smiled widely, "Tell them I wish to join the Queen's men at the Nightfort to swear my allegiance to R'hllor, the one true god."

Satin hurried to obey, and Melisandre looked to Jon, startled.

He stared back steadily, holding her gaze.  _Now both of us have secrets._


	7. Tyrion

The wagon jumped, sending the sharpened quill tip into his thumb and setting Tyrion to cursing. The roads had changed from muddied ruts to paved cobbles once they had passed Bhorash, but long stretches were grossly unkempt. Desperate villagers from remote enclaves had needed to shore up and reinforce their collapsing homesteads, and many used loose cobblestones to do so.

The result was an unpredictable ride, and a sore and bloodied thumb for Tyrion. He wasn't sure why he continued adding sums and wages for Inkpots and the Second Sons, since he planned to change sides the moment he laid eyes on the fabled Targaryen queen. The reason he finally settled on was the same that caused him to excel as Master of the Sewers of Casterly Rock and as Hand of the King, he was good at it and it needed to be done.

The fact that the confusing jumble of numbers gave Penny a headache and left him blessedly free of her company was simply an added bonus. Ever since he had slapped her at the armaments wagon she had been at turns sullen and ingratiating, Tyrion had trouble deciding which aspect he despised the most. At least the sullen Penny was a quiet one, the ingratiating one had called upon that awkward, fatalistic kiss aboard the  _Stinky Steward_  and kept at him in hopes of a repeat performance. The thought of it repulsed him to no end. Not because she was a dwarf, but because he saw her as a child, a child with no skills or independence. Tyrion needed a partner with both, and perhaps even a larger skillset than he himself had.

Seven save him, he actually missed Bronn. If only the sellsword had been a little more interested in gold and adventure than a homestead with titles and a lackwit of a wife, Tyrion could have altogether avoided this Eastern disaster that now made up his daily life. He sighed heavily as the wagon train ground to a halt, such was the price of trusting the combat skills of a venomous Martell noble over that of a tried and true killing machine.

Tyrion shut his book of sums and tucked it away on the floor of the wagon, next went his carefully stoppered ink bottle and his flamboyant quill. When it came to writing implements, Inkpots seemed impervious to sensible style, and the least garish quill Tyrion had found so far had been his current choice of a peacock feather. He slid forward along the bed of the wagon and braced himself for the fall that was quite a bit more than half his height. With a grunt, Tyrion launched himself from the wagon to the hard packed cobbles below, bending his knees to absorb the shock and praying to the Seven that he didn't roll an ankle this time, twice had been bad enough.

A flurry of activity shot through the idle band of sellswords, and Tyrion made his way to what appeared to be the center of it. He shoved his way through legs and asses until he found himself at the forefront, something he found taller people didn't mind, since blocking their view was something he could only aspire to in his dreams. An advance scout had come back in a hurry, so much so that his horse was heavily lathered. Breathless and panting, the rider looked almost as exhausted as the animal. "I've found them." He wheezed to the crowd. "Someone get Ben," the scout pleaded, "I've found her."

_Her_. Tyrion raised an eyebrow at this. The Second Sons had been following the stale trail of the Silver Queen's army for weeks now, but this was the first time they had actually caught sight of anything more than old cook fires, muddy footprints and Dothraki horseshit. Why Plumm had continued his contract with the defeated forces of the Yunkish Masters was beyond Tyrion, who, if he had captained this particular band of sellswords, would have offered fealty to the victorious queen in a heartbeat.

It was not as though they had even fought in the one sided melee that left every Yunkish warrior or slave infantryman dead. Ben had been far too occupied wringing every last golden dragon out of Casterly Rock with Tyrion's signature to actually fight in the battle he had been contracted for. Tyrion was hardly sure that there were even any slavers left alive to pay off Yunkai's contract with the Second Sons, much less persuade them from changing sides. He needed to get Ben alone with a  _cyvasse_  table, and soon, otherwise his newly adopted brothers would become so much ash and dragonshit once they met up with that black monstrosity Daenerys was partial to.

"I'll do it." Tyrion piped up, turning around and shoving once more through a sea of infrequently washed humanity, this time more codpiece than ass, but smelling just as pungent. The sellswords' stares followed him all the way to the flap of Ben's tent. He strode past the guards, insisting that he was on an extremely urgent errand, and entered without knocking, as was his specialty. To his complete unsurprise, Ben was seated on a chair fondling a half dressed camp follower, her milky breasts spilling out between his ring encrusted fingers.

"Oh good." Tyrion interrupted, pulling up a chair and a checkered table, "You're already seated." He began laying out the pieces for the  _cyvasse_  game. "The girl can stay," Tyrion advised Ben, "perhaps she'll even improve your game."

"What is the meaning of this?" The sellsword captain responded angrily, his face red and his pants ready to burst at the seams.

"Important news from an outrider," Tyrion responded casually, "but since you seem to be in no rush I thought we'd play a little  _cyvasse_  first." His first move was to destroy Ben's heavy horse with his dragon, the move was incredibly bold, and risky to a fault, but so was the young Targaryen queen.

Ben sighed in annoyance, but countered Tyrion's infantry with his own, getting ready to take his elephants and archers out to deal with the dragon, a common strategy amongst novice players.

"They've found your silver queen." Tyrion reported, moving his heavy horse in to support his beleaguered infantry.

"A scout finally finds her, and you'd rather play _cyvasse_  than tell me about it?" Ben was angry, fuming, so mad that he stood up, dumping the girl to the ground and knocking the  _cyvasse_  table so that all the pieces toppled from their places. His hand was at his sword in an instant, "You're lucky you're worth so much, Lannister imp, or I'd have your skull off in a heartbeat." His blood was raging and he was impulsive, which was exactly how Tyrion wanted him.

"Why fight her?" Tyrion asked. "There's no more Yunkish slavers to pay off the contract, at least not anywhere outside of Yunkai, and you face certain death for the Second Sons if they raise arms against a dragon, so why?"

There was one  _cyvasse_  piece left upright on the table, it was Ben's dragon, Tyrion caught him looking at it from the corner of his eye. "You think you can run this company?" Ben challenged him. "You think anyone will follow a twisted little Lannister shit like you? Well you're wrong," Ben stared down at Tyrion, a crazed look in his eyes, "now get out of here before I lose my temper and we both miss out on that Lannister gold you love so well."

Tyrion ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, he ran out of the tent and into the newly fallen evening. He could hear the roar of Brown Ben Plumm's voice through the thin walls of his tent, so loud it felt as though he were right behind him. "If he comes back again, kill him," he heard Ben order the guards, "I don't care how much he's worth."

Tyrion mind raced as he ran, feeling his legs cramp and his breath come ragged as he headed back to his wagon of sums. He needed a plan, and he needed one fast. He didn't know how long it would be before Ben figured out that Tyrion knew exactly what he wanted, why he continued to pursue Daenerys when he had no reason to. He didn't want to destroy her or her army, he wanted her dragon, and he was going to risk absolutely everything to get it. Tyrion's eyes watered and he gasped as a particularly painful stitch grew in his side, he blinked away the moisture and crashed directly into what felt like a very large, armor clad tree. Tyrion fell with a crash, blinking in the darkness as he gathered his bearings, "What in the Seven Hells was that?" he wondered aloud.

"That was me." A rough and familiar voice responded.

"Jorah Mormont?" Tyrion asked, standing up in the darkness and brushing himself off.

"Do you know of any other Mormont in exile selling his sword in the east?" The big man countered. His fearsome countenance flickering in and out as Tyrion's eyes adjusted to the darkness.

"I can't see yet, are we alone? I don't have much time." Tyrion explained.

"We're alone as anyone can be when they decide to meet downwind of a newly dug latrine pit," Jorah responded wryly, "so I would say yes."

"Ah, so that smell isn't you and I did not in fact soil myself, that's reassuring." Tyrion joked. "On a more pressing note, how much do you love Daenerys, the silver queen that banished you?"

Jorah bristled. "Say what you mean." He growled, suddenly suspicious.

"I mean, you were willing to ransom me to her to regain her good favor, would you be willing to let me escape so that I could warn her?"

"Warn her?" Jorah laughed, the mocking sound of it deflated Tyrion's hope, "Why do you care anything at all about her, you haven't even met her. This sounds more like a Lannister escape plot than a plea to assist my former sovereign."

Tyrion let out an exasperated breath, sometimes being a descendent of Lann the Clever was not always in your best interests. "Fine, I don't have much time but I'm going to tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a young boy who lived in Casterly Rock. After killing his mother by simply being born, he was scorned by his father and sister, in addition to the entire Lannister court. Thereafter, the boy's only friends were the books he could read."

"I doubt that highly," Jorah said, but allowed Tyrion to continue.

"One day the boy found a book on the history and breeding of dragons, and it caught his imagination like nothing else, every spare moment, each and every dream, and every last make believe playtime fantasy the boy concocted revolved around dragons, and do you know what the saddest day of this boy's life was?"

"What was it?" Jorah asked, yawning, he'd play along, if only to get to the end of this sad and woeful lie the Imp was spinning.

"When Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand to the King, told him that all the dragons were dead." The memory still stung, Tyrion felt his eyes grow damp and he wiped the back of his hand across them irritably. "That's when my boyhood died, Jorah, that was when I stopped hoping for the impossible. But later, from the far East, arise tales of the lost Targaryen exile princess. She made her entire rule from nothing, hatching the first dragons in more than a hundred and fifty years and becoming head of a Dothraki army when they don't even follow women to begin with!"

"She is a woman like none other." Jorah admitted, with perhaps a grudging hint of a smile and Tyrion could see some glint in the sellsword's eyes that gave him hope. "But what is she to you, Lannister? Your story has told me that you love dragons, and that you admire the queen, but none of this proves your loyalty to her."

"Fine." Tyrion could see that he needed to bring out a larger axe to fell this particular tree. "Would you believe me if I told you the reason we're marching on her army is so that Ben Plumm can steal her dragon?"

"What proof do you have?" Jorah asked.

"Why do you think I was running blindly into the night, for sport? I confronted Ben, since the Yunkish Masters are dead and there's no one left to pay the Second Son's contract, so why continue to fight a losing battle?"

"You do have a point." Jorah conceded.

"But here's the heart of the matter," Tyrion told him, "you should have seen his face when I told him we had spotted Daenerys' army, the man was crazed, he wants either her or her dragons and he'll stop at nothing to get there, not even gold matters to that man anymore, and he's a  _sellsword_  for Sevens' sake."

"So why shouldn't I leave you behind and tell her this news myself?" Jorah asked, planning an escape route of his own.

"Would she even see you?" Tyrion asked him, "Much less trust your advice? Besides, how much do you know about dragons, I can assure you that no one, and I mean no one, knows more about dragons than I do, except maybe those ancient shadowbinders east of Asshai...and I'll bet they don't speak Westerosi."

"Fine, but I'm going with you. Do you need to collect your things?" Jorah asked him.

"No," Tyrion replied, "Everything I need is on my person."

"Everything, you're sure?" Jorah asked again, confused, and Tyrion knew he was referring to Penny.

"Everything," Tyrion assured him. "Now let's get some horses."


	8. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that if I ever wanted the North to catch up with the Eastern timeline (which is still six months ahead) I needed to write way more Bran/Jon/Melisandre/etc chapters. Hopefully the 4k+ word count will satisfy the readers who wanted longer chapters, as this somehow ended up being the longest chapter I have ever written, hopefully it kicks off a trend…. Also, Melisandre seems to be growing on me, which I never expected, I may end up 'shipping her and Jon and ending up with a fantastic love square towards the end of this thing. Thanks for all the reviews, I take them to heart, so don't be shy to leave one.

The fastest way to Nightfort was to haul all the supplies, including the horses, to the top of the Wall and simply walk to the next castle. Jon had thought briefly about riding, but depending on what he found, or didn't find, in the bowels of the stone fortress, the ability to make a quick escape on a fresh horse would be the difference between life and death. Nightfort was only a half-day's journey away on foot, so if he and the red woman started in the morning, they would make it well before the lethal freezing temperatures that came howling in with the coming tides of Winter. It was a good plan, since there were no structures available to shelter them from the fierce wind as they were walking along the top of the Wall.

Satin cinched a final girth strap on one of the garrons and reported that the animals and supplies were ready and waiting. Jon nodded and embraced the Steward, hugging him close in farewell. "Whatever you hear," he whispered to his friend, "don't believe the worst of me until we've spoken, do you promise me?"

"I do." Satin whispered back, feeling the gravity of the situation. He sketched a quick half bow before dismissing himself and disappearing into the winch cage, to be lowered down the Wall and find warmth within Castle Black.

Jon turned to his companion, "And you're absolutely sure you don't need a coat or cloak?" He asked her for what seemed like the hundredth time. The priestess had packed exceedingly light, and Jon wasn't even entirely sure that she needed food or water.

"The Lord of Light provides for those in need." Melisandre told him, the same answer she had given him every other time he had asked that same question.

"Ghost, to me." Jon called to the wolf, who gave the horses a wide berth lest they spook and bolt, possibly to dash off the edge of the Wall or break a foreleg in a hidden pit of salt and Builder's compound. Jon and Melisandre set off in awkward silence, Jon, swinging Longclaw back and forth to keep the blood from pooling in his hands, Satin had packed him numerous sheaths, but he wanted to save them for as long as possible, so for now, he kept the flaming blade in hand. The only sound was the crunching of their footsteps and every now and again an errant bird call that echoed around them in the chill air.

"The songs of birds give me hope that the wights have not taken every last life north of the Wall." He said, because it was the truth, and he didn't know what else he could say to her without beginning a long stream of lies.

"What is your true intent, Lord Snow?" She asked him. "For if you wanted to swear allegiance to the Lord of Light, you do not need Queen Selyse, you need only seek out me."

"I might have been concerned that the tales of my conversion were not believed by those who reside within the Nightfort."

"The beliefs of others do not concern those that truly walk R'hllor's path," she said, looking through him with those unnerving eyes of hers. "Tell me true, Jon Snow, for born amidst smoke and salt, you are the Prince that was Promised, even if you deny it still. I am charged with aiding that Prince, so tell me, and no falsehoods, what lies in the Nightfort?"

"Would you still be charged to help me if I denounced your god and followed my old ones? Because that's whose advice I am following, are you still so ready to aid my cause then?"

The priestess thought for a moment, as she strolled, one hand trailing lightly alongside the garron's reins. "Do you truly denounce my God, Lord Snow, or do you simply prefer your old gods, for I could still aid you in that situation."

Jon knew that something fueled the priestess' power, he could not say what, but it might have been this Red God of hers. Another, darker voice reminded him that her god could be the driving force behind his resurrection, and that he was simply playing the superstitious fool who still clung to his old heathen gods, much like the Watch accused the Wildlings of doing. "I don't denounce your god," Jon admitted, "there are too many strange uncertainties surrounding you, and now me, I guess."

"Then we have reached an agreement, and there will be no more talk about one of us mistrusting the other. And now," she said, her voice becoming strange and mysterious, "what lies in the Nightfort?"

"Myths and monsters." Jon replied, truthfully. "In the North, children are commonly told stories to scare them into being good when their parents are not watching; many of the characters in these stories come from the lost history of Nightfort."

She nodded, "I believe every culture uses these same methods, it is only the stories that differ. So what are these stories?"

"A mad cook who feeds a man his own son, a crazed man who takes an axe and kills everyone in the castle, a strange otherworldly beast that arises from the darkest depths of Nightfort, and finally, a man whose name has been stricken from our history entirely, and is now only known as Night's King." Jon shuddered as he thought about what lay in store for them if any of the stories were true.

"What was his crime?" Melisandre asked.

"The stories differ, but most of them state that he fell in love with a cold, white skinned woman with eyes like blue stars, which we now know fits the description of an Other." He stopped, not certain if he wanted to continue.

"What is the matter?" She asked him, the final story had made the most sense, and she was eager to hear more.

"He sacrificed his living subjects to her." Jon said, finally, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked to her again, hoping that she didn't judge the whole of the North on the actions of one man from more than a hundred years ago.

"And you're afraid that it will happen again?"

"I'm afraid that it  _is_  happening again, and that is where all these rumors are stemming from. It's those visions you've been telling me about. That jester, Patchface, always seen with blood dripping from the mouth. Val, the Wildling woman, told me something about greyscale, and I was glad she did not do it in the presence of Queen Selyse or her retainers."

"What did she say?" Melisandre asked, "Did she tell you the girl is unclean, for that is the truth, the disease is incurable without aid from the Lord of Light, it is a pox upon the soul."

"You knew?" Jon was aghast. "You knew and you didn't help her? That's monstrous."

"I could not." It looked as though she was frustrated, and emotion that Jon didn't think the woman was even capable of. "It takes a great amount of faith to cure diseases of the body, even more for those that taint the soul. The girl was not raised within a Red Temple, a mother's anxious zealotry is nothing compared to a child's true and unclouded belief."

"Fine, so Val was right and we're walking into Night's Kingdom all over again, only this time it's run by a little girl and her fool."

Melisandre raised her eyes to the sky, seemingly trying to think. "The taint of the disease alone would not be enough to resurrect your story, Jon, there would have to be something else, and other than that, Night's King is only one of your stories, you said that you had been looking at all of them, why?"

"The message in the Godswood." He told her. "I can't explain it, but I understood the whispers of the leaves, I need to go north, beyond the Wall, and somehow, some way, there will be a path in the depths of the Nightfort, there has to be, or else I've been wrong about everything."

"And if the worst comes to pass, and you are wrong about the passage, what then?"

He looked at her, his vivid violet eyes hard and cold. "Then we fight our way out, slaying as many as we can. There's a reason that you and Ghost and Longclaw are with me and we aren't riding the garrons."

"Ah." A single, exhaled syllable as she grasped the plot. "I do hope your stories are correct, Lord Snow. If not...well...my powers are greatest around daylight and fire, if we should arrive after sunset to a fire loathing host of the Other's minions, we may both be facing the test of our lives. For, after all, the night is dark, and full of terrors."

Jon grunted, wordlessly, and they both doubled their pace.

The sun had started to drop, winking at them through the snowcapped trees, as they came upon the bell to call the Nightfort's winch cage. Jon rang it frantically, knowing their time was limited. After what seemed like an eternity, the pulley started to move and the lift cage made its way up the side of the massive Wall. Jon felt the wind start to pick up around him, howling as a messenger of the night. He sheathed Longclaw in the new scabbard he had placed on his back; leaving his hands free to tuck his black furred cloak tighter around his body.

The roomy cage finally clanged to a halt at the top of the wall, and Jon pulled it open, wondering why it was empty, protocol usually placed a Black Brother within to make sure the arriving guests atop the wall meant no harm. He didn't have the time or luxury to wonder why, and he plodded forward into the winch cage, tugging the garrons in along with him.

"We all go down together." He told Melisandre, whistling for Ghost, whose white furred bulk barely fit through the cage door before he shut it. Jon reached for the bell, coming short as the cage swung wide. "Pull the tassel," he told Melisandre, as she moved past it. She reached out a delicate fingered hand and pulled on the bell rope. The sound of the clapper echoed crazily against the hewn stone walls of the castle, and the cage began to drop.

Jon began to feel alarmed. The winch cage was descending much faster than he was used to. He tried to look around him, but all he could see were tiny specks below and the sheet of blue green ice that made up the Wall beside them. Faster and faster the winch cage fell, the wind whistling through the iron bars as the frozen sheet rushed past.

They were falling so quickly that Jon was half afraid those below had somehow cut the massive chain in an attempt to smash the lot of them to bits against the unyielding ground. He leaned back against the cold iron bars of the structure, muttering prayers to his gods of the North. Jon snuck a glance across from him and was surprised to see Melisandre, usually so composed and certain of her fate, fervently doing the same.

The cage jerked suddenly, swinging wild, and he knew their prayers had failed. Horses screamed around them and he collapsed to the crisscrossed metal below. A pained gasp beside him and a vicious snarl from the direwolf told him everything he needed to know, that when he opened his eyes he would behold his broken body and slip into the afterlife, a failure as the Promised Prince and the most short lived savior Westeros had ever known.

The jarring sound of raucous laughter caused Jon to crack an eyelid open. The cage swung a few feet off the ground, the Brothers at the Nightfort winch had barely kept it from dashing to pieces on the hard packed hoarfrost below. He looked out as the cage listed from side to side. Ringed around him were the shadows of the Queen's men, backlit and fading to darkness in the coming night, which fell much faster this far north. Jon could see the figures slouched in motley disarray that did not suit the order that Stannis or Selyse usually required.

"Are you all right?" He asked Melisandre, nervously waiting for her answer. To keep his hands from shaking, Jon reached over until his fingers came in contact with thick fur; he began stroking Ghost all over to make sure the direwolf was uninjured. One of the garrons was still screaming, he'd probably have to have the beast killed.  _So much for my escape plan._

Jon heard a soft cough and moved closer, straining to hear her over the animals. "I've been better." She gasped, clutching her arms around her midsection, "One of the horses fell on me during the descent, I think I cracked something."

Jon switched his searching to the priestess, "Excuse me, milady." He apologized, feeling lightly along her ribs, some small bumps greeted his questing fingertips, confirming his fears, but only slightly. Maester Aemon's teachings had not fallen on deaf ears. "Lightly fractured, but nothing too severe, breathing will just make you wish these fools had taken more care with the winch chain."

"I'll cope." She told him, wincing and Jon was shocked to see an actual person start to break through the unflappable presence of the red priestess. "Just get me to a fire, and soon."

Jon turned to their strange hosts. "Is this how you greet guests?" He roared at them, angry beyond reason. "Are you not men of the Night's Watch, sworn to guard and defend the realms of men, all men?"

"I don't see any men here, boys, do you?" A voice called out of the darkness, one that Jon didn't recognize. "All's I see is Stannis' witch and a corpse."

"I am Lord Commander of the Night's Watch!" Jon yelled, trying to make his voice carry above both the wounded garron and the uncouth mutterings of the men. "You will obey and provide hospitality to us or I will charge every last man of you with treason against the Brotherhood."

No voices answered from the blackness, and that's when Jon felt the first fingers of fear slide up his spine. "There's no torches." He whispered to Melisandre, "It's pitch dark and freezing and they don't need torches or braziers."

"Only the light can conquer such darkness," she hissed at him through clenched teeth, "you are the Prince, Jon, now believe it."

"Believe it?" He unsheathed his sword and prepared to meet their silent attack. The glittering fire that ran along the blade lit up the darkness and he could finally see. "Oh right, fiery sword of...that prince."

"Azor Ahai." She reminded him, standing taller. The presence of the naked blade seemed to strengthen her. "Now get to work."

Jon's first stroke was to end his garron's suffering so that he could actually hear what was going on. A forceful kick to the dented cage door and Ghost bolted out into the night. Jon came trailing after, led by Ghost's growls and the sudden screams that followed. Pretending it was a group attack exercise back at Castle Black, Jon whirled and slashed, covering the ground systematically and cutting the enemy down inch by inch. Longclaw lit the night before him, but the blade's brightness left him night-blind.

He blocked and parried, feeling his sword catch on flesh and steel alike before Jon pulled it free to resume fighting. None of the attackers posed even half the threat that Qhorin Halfhand provided, and Jon relaxed into a rhythm, letting his other senses take the forefront as he realized he could defend himself much better by feel.

A yell behind him and Jon whirled to meet his attacker, feeling his weapon carve a deep notch into his opponent's blade as enchanted Valyrian steel met castle forged sword. He wrenched Longclaw free from the block and cut a wide swath against his foe's body. The open wound caught fire, which quickly engulfed the man, who screamed as the flames overtook him and he fell to the ground. Jon looked around, quickly realizing that every man he cut had suffered the same fate.

"Ghost, to me!" He called, and the large white animal appeared out of the darkness, nestling close to his side as he returned to the cage. "Melisandre?" Jon called, but the cage was empty, the remaining garron having run off during the fight.

"I'm fine now." Said a soft voice to his left, Jon had to clamp down on his reflexes to keep from reacting. "Thank you for caring." The soft kiss she pressed into his cheek made Jon blush, he was glad of the darkness and the ruddy light from his sword.

Now that he had secured the two most important members of his party, he scanned for enemies. There were too few bodies, bodies which had now burnt down to glowing embers, for the crowd he had seen at first glance. Where had the rest of them gone?

"We need to go into the castle, but who knows what we'll find in there, so before we run, I'd like to grab some supplies off that garron." Ghost and Melisandre stood guard as Jon rooted through the packs, clipping a saddle bag off of the animal and converting it into a satchel that would keep his sword arm free. "How do you feel?" Jon asked her, standing and adjusting the bag strap over his shoulder.

"I'm fine," she told him, her priestess persona firmly in place once more. "We need to keep moving."

Jon kept Longclaw at the ready before him, using the sword as brand to light up the darkness. There were several towers that opened out into the courtyard where the winch cage had landed. He chose the one that appeared to lead to the main dormitories and banquet hall.

"This way." He said, heading toward a heavy oaken door limned with iron studs the color of soot. Jon reached out a hesitant hand pressed hard against the old wood. To his surprise, the door swung open with a loud creak. He stepped through the portal and into the hallway, his footfalls loud against the stone. He felt like a green recruit once he realized Ghost and Melisandre padded forth silently. Jon heard a shuffling noise and turned in time to see the red woman take an unused torch off the wall and spark it to life without the aid of any flint or starter. He stared at her plaintively, as if to ask an explanation.

"The Lord of Light provides-"

"For those in need." Jon finished, unsuccessfully hiding his amazement. "Perhaps I'm starting to believe in your red god after all."

The hallway opened into a large common room with high vaulted ceilings. Jon kept towards the walls, his free hand trailing against the stone in hopes of finding a hidden catch or a tapestry hiding a tunnel entrance. The empty building started to set him on edge, where was everyone?

"Where is this hidden passage of yours?" Melisandre asked.

"I'm not quite sure." Jon told her. A large set of double doors stood at the end of the hall.

"Ghost." Jon called, pointing at them, and the big white wolf stood in front of them, considering the wood before he bunched his haunches and leapt at the doors. He passed through with no more sound than a creak of the hinges, and Jon waited, listening for the sounds of battle. Nothing happened.

He followed after his direwolf and found himself in the kitchens. A large animal carcass was skewered over a hearth in the corner, the meat mostly stripped from the bones. The most imposing things about the kitchen were a huge well that disappeared deep into the ground, as wide around as the height of two men combined, and a giant weirwood tree sprouting forth from a crack in the floor stones. The kitchens looked mostly unused, in any other castle, they would be bustling with activity even late into the evening, and night had just fallen.

Jon peeked back out through the entrance doors, summoning Melisandre in with a wave and a single finger to his lips. She nodded and came in quietly. After looking around, her body immediately came to life with wary signs of alertness.

"We need to leave," she said, her voice a harsh whisper, "as soon as we can."

"But there's no one here." Jon responded, trying to piece the puzzle of the empty kitchen together. "There's  _always_  someone in the kitchens, tending to the hearth. No matter the time of night." He knelt next to the well, sweeping his bare fingers through the traces of ash that remained on the floor. Ever since the pyre he'd abandoned his practice of wearing gloves over his burnt fingers, he would no longer hide what he was from anyone. "Someone made a fire here, next to the well, but why, when the hearth's right-" Jon took the few steps toward the carcass on the spit, recoiling when he realized it was no animal at all.

"Jon!" Melisandre hissed at him, her hand already pressed against the door as she prepared to escape.

"Who would..." Jon started to ask, before a singsong voice from the great hall interrupted him and chilled him to his core.

"Under the sea, the little fish eat the big fish, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."

The tinkling sound of bells matched a child's high pitched giggle. "Oh Patches, Ser Narbert was no fish, you know that, and besides, we don't eat those this far from Dragonstone."

"Hush child," it was the haughty tones of Selyse Florent, self-styled Queen of the Andals since the Targaryen girl had yet to set foot on Westerosi soil. "We must find them before they cause trouble in the castle and undo all of our good works."

Patchface agreed with a jingling nod of his head. "Under the sea, the ice is warm and fire cannot catch, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."

"They're here somewhere, my Queen, I can smell the heat of their blood." Jon recognized the third voice, it was the voice of Gerrick Kingsblood's son, a boy he had hoped would remain safe, so long as he remained hostage to Castle Black and kept under the Watch's tutelage. It would seem that his brothers were less than obedient following Jon's betrayal.

"They're coming closer." Melisandre reported, taking backward steps from the portal but never tearing her eyes away from the wooden surface.

"We need to find another way out." Jon said, looking around the room for anything that could serve as an escape route. "What about...?" He pointed to the well and Melisandre's eyes followed, just in time to watch Ghost's white pelt vanish as he leapt into the darkness.

"Ghost!" Jon shouted, forgetting himself.

"The kitchens!" Kingsblood's voice bellowed from the great hall, and he knew they only had moments before the Nightfort's rulers were upon them.

Jon turned and drew Longclaw, ready to fight, but Melisandre had another idea. She ran from the door, grabbing Jon's free hand as she lunged past and started to drag him in the direction of the well.

"Remember what I told you about trusting in faith?" She reminded him. "It's time to put that to the test."

Jon turned with her and they both entered the gaping maw of the well together. He was expecting a steep and sudden drop, and was surprised when he slammed a knee into a set of cleverly hewn steps that lead down the well in a dizzying spiral. Melisandre recovered her wits just ahead of him, hurrying down the stairs as Jon heard the clattering bootsteps of their pursuers burst into the kitchen.

"Where are they?" Selyse's voice filled the room and poured down the well. "Find them, Kingsblood, find them now or next time you'll be the one on the spit."

Jon kept moving, he had sheathed Longclaw as he made his way down the steps so that he could use both hands for balance, and now he was glad of it, the brilliant light the blade gave off would have the Kingsblood boy down on them in a heartbeat.

Jon would have enjoyed some light in the darkness though, he could only hope Melisandre was still in front of him, he tried his best to keep his steps silent while making his way to the bottom as fast as he could. The voices began to fade and distort as he went further and further down the well. Jon began to wonder how far down the steps went when he bumped into Melisandre at the bottom, startling the both of them.

"Look, Jon, look at what Ghost has found."

He did. The wolf was placidly sitting on his haunches in front of a carved weirwood, its face that of a very old man who seemed to be sleeping. The wood itself gave off a soft, milky white glow. Jon approached it slowly, "It's a heart tree." He said. "It's strange though, usually the eyes are open. What is it doing all the way down here?" Jon ran his hands across the surface of the tree, stopping near the tightly shut eye slits. He stifled a scream when they opened wide and stared at him.

"Who are you?" The wrinkled face asked, the 'who' echoing softly all around them.

"I am Jon Snow, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch of Castle Black." The milky eyes continued to stare and Jon realized the tree was blind.

"Who  _are_ you?" It asked again, and this time louder, the first word surrounding them in a rising crescendo.

"I am Jon Snow, bastard son of Ned Stark of Winterfell."

" _Who are you?"_  The tree asked once more, and this time the noise was deafening. Jon could hear the thrum of activity above him, including shouts of 'the well, in the well.' He looked deep inside himself and found an answer for the heart tree.

"I am the sword in the darkness." Jon said, and drew his flaming sword, hoping that he was right this time, that the tree would let them pass before the occupants of Nightfort arrived to kill or enslave them. "I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers."

Ghost growled beside him, his hackles rising, and he knew they were out of time. "I am the shield that guards the realms of men."

"Then pass," the door said, and all around them, chaos erupted.


	9. Bran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to stick with the North for a bit, because the timeline is still ahead of Bran sending Summer to find Nymeria in Cressio's dream. I'm still trying to kick the rust off my writing skills, and trying to figure out Bloodraven and the Children's overall motivations within the grand scheme of light/dark and good/evil (and whose god represents which) is incredibly difficult.

He could hear the noises coming from the man-thing before he even got close enough to smell that he was pack. There was another with him, and she smelled like the pits the Old Ones used to make fire, but also of pack. He growled when he smelled one more, raising his hackles as he moved closer to it. A pale arm reached through a wall of wood, grasping at the air as it tried to grab anything that came close. Its flesh reeked the same as the wriggling limbs he pulled from the deep snows, half covered in rotting meat that would continue to move until he cracked the bones between his strong jaws and reduced them down to fragments and marrow. His white brother, the voiceless one, stood guard between his pack and the cold thing at the door, teeth bared in silent snarl and red eyes afire.

_Leave this place_.

A sudden voice startled Summer and he snapped his jaws at the empty air beside him, snarling in fury. This set his brother into attack, who leapt at the limb and tore it from its place in the wall. A wounded howl shook the cavern, but the surface held solid, pinching shut into the pouting face of a blind old man, blood slowly trickling from the corner of his red mouth like a trail of spittle.

The arm continued to wriggle on the floor, unaffected by Ghost's savage assault. Summer slipped in quickly and stole it from beneath his brother, gulping and tearing at the moving flesh until he could satiate the hunger that was consuming him. Ghost approached to claim his prey, but Summer lunged and kept him back, gorging once his brother maintained distance. It had been too long since he had eaten and his feral swam close to the surface.

_Lead them to Coldhands._

The voice came again and Summer growled at it, but only half heartedly, the meat was mostly gone from the arm now, and now all that was left was bone and stringy sinew. He grasped it off the floor and trotted up to the man-thing that was pack, sitting on his haunches as he waited for his attention.

"What is it waiting for?" Noises from the female who smelled of fire.

"It's one of ours." This time it was his pack. "One of the Stark wolves, he belonged to my brother." The man-thing reached out a hand and Summer sniffed it, dropping the limb to lick the surface before he looked back up at him. "He had no name when I left for the Wall."

_Coldhands._

The voice was louder this time, and more insistent. Summer sighed and complied, snatching his prize again before trotting down the hall towards their guide, tail held high like a banner. He turned and looked at his pack again when they failed to follow him.

"I think he's our guide."

More noises from the man-thing, but it came with footsteps, so Summer continued into the dark, leading his pack to the snows, and to the one that smelled of death and ice, but was not prey.

* * *

"They're coming." Bran said to the darkness, opening his eyes and waiting for them to adjust. He could control his wolf, he could control him just fine as a skinchanger, all of Jojen's worries were unfounded. Bran hadn't seen Jojen, or Meera for that matter, for quite some time.

The last time he had left his weirwood throne had been during the sliver of the crescent moon, and he had waited up for them all night to no avail. Feeling a bit scorned and useless, Bran had decided then that he no longer needed to bed down in his furs at night. If he was a Greenseer, he may as well start acting like one. As a result, here he was, alone in the darkness, with no one but his teacher and the grasping white roots to grant him company. The dark quiet was hardly lonely though, and Bran's hours were filled with visions from his thousand eyes. The paste of weirwood seeds the Singers had given him made his waking life pale in comparison to the powers held in the blanched white roots around him. Bran was so enthralled by skinchanging, he had even forgotten to seek out Hodor.

Besides, there were many more creatures in the world around him who were more fun to warg into than Hodor, and they melded with him rather than curling up into a dark pit and wallowing in sadness. Changing into Hodor had become easier, but the emotional toll of pushing Hodor to one side was starting to affect Bran, and he was wondering if becoming his friend was really as harmless as he thought it had been. He had flown high above the frozen North as crows and eagles. Slunk through the trees and brush as a shadowcat and felt the strength and power of the bears. He had begun to talk as a raven and could successfully navigate through time and space using the network of heart trees that were still present all over the northern parts of Westeros. The things he had learned were at turns thrilling and terrifying, and he had spent a great many days looking through the eyes of the godswood at Winterfell and learning his own history. Those lessons had been interrupted when he took wing as an eagle one morning and saw a pair of humans and a white wolf walking along the icy ramparts of the Wall.

Only one human had a white direwolf of that monstrous size, and the two happened to be travelling east, to the Nightfort, which only meant one thing. Jon had heard him, he had heard and understood and he was coming this way. Preparations had to be made, and Bran had asked the Three-Eyed Crow to send Coldhands out to meet them at the Nightfort's Black Gate. Surely Jon would figure out how to open the door, he was, after all, a member of the Night's Watch. He had said the vows the same as the rest of them.

Bran had hoped nothing terrible had happened to them on their way to the Black Gate, and Summer's presence in the Nightfort had just confirmed it. There had been a close call, but it was nothing a couple of direwolves couldn't handle. Now he had more plans to make, but his power over nature was useless to him at the moment. Bran needed legs, he needed Hodor.

"Hodor," Bran called out into the darkness, "Hodor, I need you." Before Bran's falling out with the Reeds, he would call after Hodor frequently. The large man was usually within hearing range of Bran's seat, so when he didn't arrive after a few minutes, Bran began to wonder if something was amiss. Should he reach out for Hodor and make him return, or should he choose a different path?

One of the ever present ravens that nested near the roots of his weirwood quorked and Bran knew his answer. Another moment and he found himself looking out at a comatose boy with unkempt, shaggy brown hair nestled down in a bundle of furs and blanched wood. The raven looked at the boy and his surroundings critically. Bran was perpetually conscious of Bloodraven's current state of life, or unlife, whichever it was, but the darkness hid things from his human eyes, not so with the raven's. Satisfied that no grasping root was about to drill itself into his body's eye, Bran turned and flew down the corridor towards the Children's main living area.

"Ho!" The raven startled the giant by perching on his shoulder, and Bran made soft soothing sounds in the back of the bird's throat until Hodor calmed down enough to be used as a perch.

A group of Children were crowded around something and Hodor was troubled. He kept wringing his hands together, hodoring, and half heartedly trying to move the Singers away from their intended target, though what that was Bran had no idea, as all the raven saw were lightly dappled bodies packed around a surface of some kind. His carrion senses detected blood, and his initial thought was that Hodor was just overreacting about the latest half live, half frozen animal corpse that would sustain them.

Until he heard Meera scream.

That was when Bran saw the knives. They were dragonglass, their glossy surface dark, and shining with ill intent. Some were dull and he realized they were covered in blood.

"Stop!" The raven's screech cut through the tense air like one of their glittering blades. Hodor's body flinched beneath him and the Children backed away from their prey all at once. Bran finally saw what they had been cutting. Meera lay sprawled over a body, her arms and back bleeding from dozens of cuts, their irregular lines matched the chipped dragonglass perfectly. He let out a raucous cry and flew to her, scattering the Singers in a flurry of feathers and sharp pecks. He landed on the table with an ungainly squawk, brushing a few strands of Meera's hair aside with an errant wing as a talon knocked a carved wooden bowl to the floor. He looked down and saw a sludge of weirwood seed paste and blood slowly seep out onto the floor. Bran felt sick and furious all at once, the feathers around the raven's chest puffed up and he began to shake. Hell bent on introducing his sharp beak to their large, cat-like eyes, he coiled himself up for flight, ready to unleash his fury upon the Children. A sudden, soft touch to his ruffled feathers deflated his anger before he could do any real damage.

"My Prince." Meera called softly. Bran had to break this standoff, but he wasn't sure how. Summer was out in the frozen wasteland beyond their burrow, and Hodor, though effective in short bursts, was no diplomat when it came to speaking. He could not convince the Children to abandon their ritual as a skinchanger. He needed to do it as Bran, but the boy Bran was incredibly far away from the immediate dangers of the common room, and held little physical prowess at anything.

_Think, think,_ "Think!" Bran goaded himself, the last iteration coming forth in the voice of his raven.

"Mee...ra...?" A strangled groan sounded from beneath his friend and he suddenly realized what had happened. The Singers hadn't wanted Meera after all, she was simply in the way of their intended target, a greendreamer.  _Or the blood of one…_ Bran sickened as he remembered the taste of the blood through his deep and twisted roots. The bronze sickle and the sacrificed life's blood did have magic lodged within them, that was undeniable. Before the blood, there had been no memory.

Another groan and Bran knew for certain that it was Jojen on that weirwood altar, knew what he had meant as he stared out hopelessly into the snows from the mouth of the cave.

" _Today is not the day I die."_

He had said it before, but not recently. Had he been dreaming of this? Everything Jojen had ever told him had been leading up to this moment, he had stopped at nothing to bring Bran this far beyond the Wall to learn from the Three-Eyed Crow.

" _My task was to get you here. My part in this is done."_

"Jo!" A harsh cawing split the air.

" _Jojen, you're scaring him."  
_ " _He is not the one who needs to be afraid."_

It had been Bran they wanted, but Jojen was the one they needed. His blood had wed Bran to the weirwoods. How much of it was left flowing through his veins?

Bran had to stop them, he had to save Jojen.

In a flurry of dark wings he rushed at the Children, pecking and cawing mercilessly, unwilling to stop until they began to retreat, scattering into darkened corners and away from the Reeds.

* * *

"Brynden!" Bran felt his eyes open into darkness as he toppled forward out of his weirwood throne. The pain was excruciating, but it was the only option available to him. He crawled forward, pulling himself by his arms alone. "Stop this, Lord Brynden." Bran kept on, feeling his body scrape along jagged roots and stones. "Stop this now, or it's over."

"You would fight destiny?" His teacher asked, and Bran could hear the subtle rustle of dried leaves that meant movement.

"I would fight murder." Bran answered, gritting his teeth as he clasped his fingers around a protruding root, flexing hard and wrenching his body after it.

Soft footfalls echoed down the corridor and Bran knew they were no longer alone. The pattern was light and belonged to one of the Children. A voice called out in the True Tongue, and Bran could hear the Three Eyed Crow's whispered answer.

Another pull across the floor, and Bran was looking up at the dim outline of a Singer, obsidian knife still in hand.

"Is it murder if he wished for it?" Bloodraven asked Bran, "What is worth more? One dreamer's eyes, or a thousand eyes and one? One dreamer's life, or a thousand lifetimes and the wisdom of the ancients."

Seizing his chance, Bran surged up with all his strength and ripped the dagger from the Singer's hand.

"That's a good question, Lord Brynden." Bran yelled, rolling a few yards beyond the Singer's grasp and forcing the dagger up to his own throat. "What's worth more to you, the life of one dreamer, or the loss of your legacy?"

Silence answered him, and Bran knew he had to make them believe his threat.

"What is your decision, Lord Brynden?"

Time was running out, for Bran, for the Reeds, for all of them. "Winter is coming," he whispered, as he pushed the chipped edge deeper, feeling the hot blood slip through his fingers.


	10. Cressio

The ship listed onward for days and days, the coastline bobbing in and out of sight like an errant cork, until finally Cressio could take no more. His normally silent demeanor and odd ways had left the crew on edge. There had been whispers belowdecks that his habits may have been linked to the Other, but those voices ceased as soon as Cressio appeared, the Braavo's blade and dagger glinting at his side. Superstition and rumors were one thing, attempting to dishonor a waterdancer, and an emissary of the Iron Bank at that, was suicide. Tensions and mutterings were rising though, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before the simmering gossip boiled over into anger and hatred. The faintest hint of stormclouds appeared on the horizon and Cressio knew his time was short. The last thing he needed was to fight off an entire ship's worth of zealously impassioned sailors bent on offering him to their Red God as sacrifice against the coming Winter storm.

He went to the captain, who was alone in his cabin charting their ever changing course, and offered to pay his passage to Pentos in full, if only he would allow him to go ashore at the first likely coastal village with horses. Relieved to be rid of the emissary's potential for trouble, since every captain worth his salt knows every stow away, supply and bit of gossip travelling aboard with him. He ordered the one of his crewmen to row the troublesome Braavosi to shore, supposedly to negotiate a lower price for fresh water. When the crewman returned lacking both water casks and one nonbelieving eunuch, no one asked questions. As the clouds gathered, the rumor mill churned on, hungrily searching for the scapegoat responsible.

Cressio waved absently as the striped sails disappeared into the horizon. Those sails had always meant home to him, since they were usually only seen near the Free Cities. This barren land, however, was something else entirely. He had taken a short length of rope from the ship, and now tied it around the handles of his strongbox, turning the stubbornly heavy item into a kind of sledge. He tugged hard, and the sharp corners cut divots into the sand. A grunt and some more exertion turned the divots into a kind of slithering track as he dug his feet into the drifts and pulled his valuables up the shore and away from the sea.

A short, squat hut, lashed together from saplings and palm fronds, rose into view. A firepit stood smouldering nearby, ringed by ancient coral and hardened driftwood. Several strings of fish were smoking over a small pile of green wood, and an old, scarred dog lay curled near the pit. Its single eye opened to watch the intruder as it gave a half hearted growl and bared what was left of its rotten fangs before settling back down into somnolency.

"Hello?" Cressio called out, hoping there was someone here besides his elderly canine companion. "Is there anyone about?" He dropped the heavy line to the sand and took a few more steps towards the hut. He drew a breath to call out again, but the clattering of shells and bowls and whatever else was in the hut interrupted him.

"Raiders!" A hoarse and cracking voice issued from the shelter. "There is justice! A man has rights!"

A small, wizened man toppled out of the palm hut, shell in one hand, iron fry pan in the other. His hair was wild and unkempt, puffing out into a shining grey archway that framed his bushy eyebrows, small pouting mouth and wispy white chin hairs. Cressio's first thought was that here was a man he had no need to fear. His second was that the captain had cheated him, leaving him stranded with no way to get to Pentos in time to intercept the Targaryen Queen.

"Be calm." Cressio urged, taking the few steps needed to approach the old man before dropping to a crouch and laying a gentled palm on the hand clenching the fry pan. "I do not come to steal your life away," he explained, "I seek purchase, though I fear you cannot sell." He looked around again, finding nothing he had not seen on his first impression.

The man let go of the iron pan, instead grasping Cressio's wrist and seeking purchase as he tried to stand up. "Do not fear." He told Cressio. "A man has secrets." His quick, dark eyes roved over him, assessing. "A boy has secrets too." He noticed.

"Not a boy," Cressio countered, "but never a man."

"A riddle then." The old man smiled. "This one is Zakem N'lar, what do they call the riddle?" He asked, never letting go of his impromptu handshake.

"Lorathi?" Cressio asked, having only heard that kind of name once before, or had that been a dream? The man nodded and Cressio realized he had misstepped. "This riddle is called Cressio Menaris."

"Just so." Zakem said, imitating the Braavosi idiom with perfect inflection.

"A man has more secrets." Cressio answered back, with a knowledge of the Lorathi cadence that made him uncomfortable to think about. Besides Zakem, Cressio had never met a Lorathi before.

Zakem released his forearm and promptly turned before scampering up the hill, "Come, riddle Cressio, a man will show some of his secrets."

Cressio followed after him they crested another sand dune and before them, coralled in a driftwood fence, were scores of gleaming, silken coated horses.

He turned to Zakem, "How did you know?"

He shrugged. "A boy has needs, as does a man, but you are neither man nor boy. Beyond that dune," he pointed to another hill, "live my wives, daughters and grandaughters, beauties all, without equal, none yet dowried." He gestured to the herd before them. "A riddle comes, no boat, no horse, nothing but strongbox and blade. A riddle has needs, different needs, so I show him my fillies." He smiled, his teeth white and beaming where they remained.

"A man is right." Cressio laughed. "Let us strike a deal."

"No deal," Zakem told him solemnly, "payment for a promise."

"A promise?" Cressio asked, confused.

"A man promises that he knows which horse is yours, if it is true, you must promise to take her."

"Her?" Traditionally, the fastest and the strongest horses for fighters and messengers were always stallions.

"A promise!" Zakem demanded.

"I promise!" Cressio swore, wondering what lumbering mare he had just been duped into buying.

"That one there, watch." Zakem pointed as a silver grey horse, coat the color of stormclouds and Cressio's eyes, burst through the herd, biting and kicking at those that got in her way. She bolted, clods of sand flew as she raced the perimeter. She screamed as she circled, looking for any opportunity for freedom, and something in Cressio's heart twisted.

"At least she is a fast mare." Cressio sighed.

Zakem snorted. "That one? No, no, never a mare, she is the reason I cannot have stallions in my herd, she would rather the herd burn than breed, which is why she is named what she is, do you know her name, riddle Cressio? If you do, you take her with you, and keep your strongbox shut."

The warrior queen whose stubborness burned a thousand ships. "I know her name," Cressio said, though his smile was tight as he tried to figure out a way to ride what looked to be a wild destrier, "her name is Nymeria."

"Just so." The old man said, and went to fetch him a bridle and tack.

* * *

Cressio held out a bit of, he wasn't sure what it was, but Zakem had told him it was a kind of root vegetable that grew in the shaded side of dunes. The name wasn't important, the important part was that Nymeria was partial to the vegetable, and the other horses seemed to hate it. He whickered softly, and a group of fillies, Nymeria included, came to investigate. He kept the bridle rope loose in his other hand, one by one, each horse came to investigate, hopeful for a carrot or an increasingly rare apple. When they realized it was just the tubers they dug up in the dunes on a daily basis, they became disinterested and wandered away, all of them except one.

"Well, girl, it is just you and me now." He offered up his hand and she snorted, stepping forward and pawing the ground once or twice. She sniffed at the prize and he could feel her whiskers tickle his hand as her nostrils flared. Another step closer and strong white teeth clamped down on the starchy vegetable, crunching it down to nothing as she swallowed, he was glad Zakem had given him an entire sack of the things. Cressio stepped back and repeated the ritual, pleased when Nymeria stepped forward once more, her body language void of aggressiveness or fear.

At least, until the third time, when Cressio slipped the bridle noose over her head and tried to lead her around, she took particular offense to that. She reared back, screaming, and Cressio had little time to react. Nymeria extended her hind legs and swiped at him with her forelegs. Her body was long and the rearing lifted Cressio off the ground. He had two choices, either let go of the bridle, and lose this horse, or do something insane.

He chose insane, pulling himself up on the rope, he reached out and felt his fingers tangle as he closed on a fistful of mane. Before his logical mind could tell him to stop, another voice whispered a command,  _Quick as a Snake._  He pulled himself up and swung a leg over her back, settling his heels into her haunches before she could attempt a jump to shake him off.  _Swift as a Deer._  She dropped back to all fours and he kicked her into a gallop. They raced through the herd and around the edge of the corral again, she kicked and bucked in an attempt to shake him off, when that failed, Nymeria chose madness and bolted straight towards the driftwood fence.

_Calm as Still Water_. Cressio leaned forward and urged her on, felt her running full out beneath him as he clung to her like a burr, the ground racing past them in a blur as the high white fence rose up before them.

A turn of his heels and then a moment of weightlessness as she jumped. Cressio held his breath as the world stopped and the two of them moved as one. He felt his heartbeat thundering in his chest and Nymeria's panting exertion beneath him. He took in a breath of the whistling wind as they soared, clearing the top fencepost with room to spare before landing outside the corral and racing off along the coast.

She was still galloping at a breakneck pace and he knew that at some point she needed to slow down, after all winning a horse as part of an insane promise was worthless if she went lame or threw him and broke his neck. He gripped her stormy mane with sweating fingers and pulled hard towards the endless green horizon, her hoofbeats splashed up seawater and soaked the both of them, Cressio shivered against the freezing water but held tight to his resolve. She kept running and he kept pulling, until the rising sea came up to his waist and Nymeria was at a standstill.

Cressio finally released the breath he had been holding before he relaxed his deathgrip on her mane. He stroked her fondly alongside the neck, feeling the heat of the animal through the icy water. "So that was all it took?" He asked her, laughing in relief, "A jump and a swim? I wish you would have told me that before."

Nymeria snorted, blowing water in every direction as she got her footing on a sandbar and started back towards shore. He relaxed and led her in an easy canter, it was a long while before he caught sight of Zakem again, Cressio hadn't realized how fast they had been going until the sun's descent marked the length of their journey. He waved at the now gilded bush that was Zakem's hair. The small man hopped up and down, waving fiercely back before starting to run at them, spry for his years. Cressio pulled Nymeria up short as Zakem met them, panting but little.

"A riddle rides off with my worst vexation, but both come back the best of friends, tell me Cressio, what magic is this?"

"No magic, Zakem," Cressio laughed, "only a stubborn will meeting one who is more foolhardy." He looked down and realized the bridle rope had been lost at some point. "I think I will be needing another bridle," Cressio motioned down to his hands, "and the largest bag of those roots you can muster."

"A bridle you shall have, friend Cressio, a bridle and my gratitude." The two men and the horse walked back to Zakem's hut as the sun sank into the ocean.

* * *

It was early yet the next morning as Cressio and Nymeria set out towards Pentos. The sky glowed dimly out towards the east, and he started out for the faint horizon, hoping to beat out the worst of the inland desert sun. Depending on that storm, the ship would reach Pentos in two or three days. The rumor was that the Targaryen Queen, along with her army and her dragons, would come a day or two later to either offer terms or sack the city. No one was quite sure why she was headed to Pentos, Danaerys was known as the Breaker of Chains, and the Free Cities were so named because they had freed themselves from the Valyrian overlords, her very ancestors, hundreds of years prior. Thus far she had made no enemies amongst the Free Cities, or at least none that were vocal about it, and the Iron Bank, as well as Cressio, hoped that it would stay that way.

He also hoped that Nymeria's stamina was as boundless as her obstinance, because he intended to race along the inland track, taking cover in the hottest parts of the afternoon for rest along with food and water, and then continue on at a break neck pace throughout the cool, night time darkness. Zakem had told him to travel a half day's journey to the east before turning south and riding towards her army. He kept her at a fast canter, quick, but shy of the incredibly taxing pace she had shown him before. The sky around them went from black to lilac, and the thin film of dew clinging to the plantlife they passed vanished as the sun rose in earnest. The tiny rodents that fled from Nymeria's quick hoofbeats ceased to appear. From then on, the only life they saw were snakes and lizards, sunning themselves before the intense heat of a cloudless sun sent them into hiding as well.

Sweat dripped down Cressio's brow and he blinked away the stinging salt. His fancy Braavosi clothes were drenched, and a quick inspection of his strongbox, firmly strapped across Nymeria's withers, saw that the horse's silver coat was as slick as he felt. Sandstone cliffs loomed up to either side of him, and he directed Nymeria towards a jagged wall, his eyes scanning for some hidden opening that would reveal a cave or some other place to rest. The air around them shimmered, throwing illusions and mirages to trick Cressio into looking for shadows that never existed. Finally, when he felt he could take no more, a pebble rolled down the cliff face a few paces in front of him, instead of plunking straight down, it bounced off a rock ledge and rolled right in front of him before being crushed underfoot by Nymeria's now plodding hooves. He clucked his tongue and urged her forward one last time, feeling blessed relief as a camoflauged overhang materialized to cast a cloak of shade over him.

He dismounted, unpacked food and water for the both of them, and then felt the shaded rock wall cradle his body as he faded into a blissful and much needed stupor. They would continue on in darkness, for as many days as necessary, he would push them both as hard as he could, he needed to find Danaerys. She needed to know, more than anyone, what was at stake if she chose violence. Not only would she lose the backing of the Iron Bank, but turning against the Free Cities would unleash powers she knew nothing about.

It had been part of his training back at the House of Black and White, the history of Essos and the evolution of the Many Faced God and his servants. When tyrants arose, money changed hands, and the balance of power was restored back to what had been. He needed to talk to her, and soon, before one of his Brothers did.

_Valar morghulis._


	11. Daenerys (and Tyrion)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wife had a baby on October 10th, so life is insane currently, but the insomnia has apparently been good for my writing, so here's another chapter. I know you all are chomping at the bit for Arya/Cressio's arrival, but I checked my maps and unfortunately Tyrion was closer, with Cressio probably a day or two behind, so next chapter is Cressio POV.

" _Khaleesi_!" One of her newly christened Blood Guard, Jhero, called out to Danaerys as she rode her Silver alongside Missandei's gelding. "Outriders have spotted someone approaching."

"Can they be identified?" She asked him, curious to know who would approach an army assisted by dragons without reinforcements of their own.

Ko Jhero shook his head. "They are not Dothraki, but fly no cloth." His world was divided into only two kinds of people, those in Khals, and those with funny colored banners.

"How many, blood of my blood?"

"Two only,  _khaleesi_ , one was small."

"Two, alone, riding in from the desert?" Such a stunt was madness. These fools were desperate, but she did not yet know if they were running to Danaerys and her vast army or away from something else. There was only one way to be certain. "Bring them straight to me, tell them nothing, only that they must ride with you, or else feel the kiss of my children."

"At once,  _khaleesi."_  Ko Jhero rode off smartly, leaving trail of red dust in his wake.

The eastern desert was full of armies, but hers was the only one that wasn't for sale. Who were these travelers? Refugees from a burnt out village? Deserters from one of the companies? She felt that anyone who truly meant her harm would slip in quietly during the night after they made camp. If these were assassins, they were certainly foolish ones. She only hoped the strangers had no blood debt with the Windblown. She had no urge to exercise her hard won diplomacy, and the Tattered Prince was prickly to a fault. She had already sent the Unsullied to stop multiple brawls and near riots between the sellswords and her khalasaar, enemies in their midst would just fuel the fire further.

"Only time will tell." She sighed to herself, and touched her heels against the Silver, blessedly rescued from Meereen by Ser Barristan himself. The horse exploded into a gallop, and around them the entire army began to march in double time.

Patience had its merits, but then again, so did solving mysteries. Every step forward meant less time pondering the new arrivals and more time spent revealing the truth, whatever it may be.

* * *

"Be still you great lump!" Tyrion turned to shout as his Dothraki escort prodded him sharply in the back with the hilt of an arakh. "I am going as fast upon this brutish creature as my meager physique will allow."

The Dothraki grunted in response, Tyrion only hoped that this riveting conversation and annoyingly accelerated pace meant they had the Mother of Dragon's attention. To his utter unsurprise, Jorah was quiet and introspective for the duration of their journey, and why not? He was crawling back to his beloved queen, the one that had cast him out like so much nightsoil.

Their savage escort did not seem to know who they were, however, so that was at least one point in their favor. The last thing Tyrion wanted was to be painted with a traitor's brush, there was already enough of that going on in Westeros for one lifetime, he didn't need it here as well. They were downwind, so he smelled the army long before he saw the plume of dust rising over the dunes. His squad crested a hill of their own and he understood why as he caught his first glimpse.

Tyrion rubbed his eyes and blinked in disbelief, daring the image to stay. The Silver Queen's army was massive. This was no rag tag band of rebels and a handful of sellswords to stiffen up the infantry, this was a force to be reckoned. The Dothraki charged proudly ahead, their arakhs glinting in the sun as they raced and challenged one another. Bordering the marching columns on all sides, the dark spear and shield of the Unsullied rose high above the sands, never faltering, never breaking rank, perfect in every way that mattered. In the center was her mass of cooks, freedmen and sellswords, who looked to be the very definition of disarray. But at the army's heart, the sun glinted off the silver blonde locks of what could only be a purebred Targaryen. She was seated beautifully atop a silver mare and looked the very definition of a  _khaleesi_ , the ruler of a people that lived and died by their steeds. Her charisma was evident, even from that far away, and when Tyrion thought there was nothing left to impress him, a dark shadow sped across the sands in front of him.

He felt his heart stop and then stutter up again in double time. He shaded a hand over his eyes and looked up into the burning sky. Above him, the great black monster soared through the air as if it weighed no more than a handful of down.

"A dragon..." He whispered, and felt something roll down his cheek as it cut through dust and stubble. "A living, breathing, dragon."

He managed to tear his eyes away from the legendary creature long enough to see a stirring of movement at the head of the army, the Dothraki seemed to be excited about something. Suddenly the wings of the great black dragon folded and it dropped from the sky like a stone. Tyrion was afraid for the beast until the air filled with a screech so loud and terrifying that it shook him to his very marrow, then he quickly became afraid for himself. The already scorching air became as hot as a forge and he saw a huge blast of fire erupt off in the distance. Then the dragon was rising up from the sands, flapping its leathery wings with a the strength of a hundred storms, a charred aurochs clutched between its jaws.

"Only two animals eat cooked meat." He recited from memory, watching the creature twist like a serpent as it gorged overhead. "Dragons and men."

"Where did you hear that?"Jorah snapped, his tone angry, it was the first emotional response Tyrion had seen from him the entire ride.

"If you must know," Tyrion replied academically, hoping to diffuse the tension, "it was Septon Barth's  _Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History,_ why?"

"Viserys used to say that, and afterwards, the way he looked at her..." Jorah's fingers clenched the reins until his knuckles turned white.

"Viserys was her brother, and, if I recall correctly, the Targaryens have been marrying brother to sister for three hundred years. One should expect a small bit of lust to surface."

"It wasn't lust!" Jorah yelled, causing alarm to ripple through their Dothraki guards. In a heartbeat the arakhs were out and flashing, and Tyrion recalled all too clearly how blade happy savage warrior tribes were, his own followers included.

Privately, Tyrion thought Jorah had his own personal definition of how lust directed at Danaerys should look, but instead of highlighting that point, he sought to make it to the center of the army with all his stunted, and beloved, parts intact instead of being left to mummify in the sands.

"You're right, Jorah," Tyrion agreed, keeping his voice pitched low. "He was the Mad King's son after all, how could he feel anything for her that wasn't..." He searched for the word, frantically checking his surroundings for the sudden inrush of incredibly sharp blades. "Twisted."

"Twisted, that's a good word for it."

Jorah seemed placated, and the Dothraki lowered their weapons, with what Tyrion noticed to be obvious disappointment.

"What luck," Tyrion said, pressing his horse forward a bit quicker, "we're at the head of the army, I'll see you at the center." He split off as fast as he could, hoping to make it through the press of people without drawing alarm and gain an audience with the Silver Queen.

At least for a few moments, before Jorah arrived, obviously travelling with Tyrion, and then he'd have to talk fast to keep them from sharing the same fate as the aurochs, which was still falling around them in grisly, half charred chunks. Tyrion was a great talker, at least, he thought so, and he had the rest of the army to travel through to think of a great opening line.

Had she heard the one about the Dornishman?

* * *

Daenerys saw a tiny spurt of dust plume upwards as a single horse trotted against the current of her army and came towards her. The rider was small, no taller than a child, but even from a distance she could see that the thickness of his shoulders and the broadness in his jaw made him a man, albeit a short man. Incredible bounties often grew wings of their own, and the price attached to the dwarf Tyrion Lannister's head was so immense that even she, the far off Eastern dragon queen had heard of him. She wondered how many of the stories were true. His obvious talent of killing his kindred Lannisters would be a great asset to her once she made it to King's Landing in Westeros, that is, if the stories of him being a crazed and perverted monkey demon were not true as well. She knickered to her Silver and plunged forward, startling her honor guard as they scrambled to keep pace with her through the sea of freedmen.

As she and Tyrion came closer to one another, Daenerys began to notice finer details about him. The first was a horrific scar the marred most of his face, ending in a cruel cut that had taken most of his nose. What unmarked flesh remained on that squared off head of his would never be called pretty, but with the scar she could see why so many thought he was a demon and referred to him solely as, "the Imp." The second thing she noticed were his eyes. They were not the wide, rolling orbs of a madman, but they peered back at her, cool and calculating. One was the fabled Lannister green and one, she caught herself shivering for no reason in the desert heat, one was an unnerving black.

The only break in his calm facade came when Drogon's shadow passed over them. Daenerys saw him look up to the sky and for a moment, she glanced the awestruck boy who loved dragons more than anything else life had to offer. She made her decision regarding his character on that moment alone. His face did not betray the power mad lust or fear that most did when when gazed upon her children, only an intense, burning curiosity. It was startling and refreshing, and at once she found herself looking forward to meeting this man, who seemed to be more her kindred than his gilded Lannister pedigree implied.

She came within speaking range of him and waited, wondering what would happen. What would his tact be? Would he bow and scrape, bluster and brag, or would he try something else entirely?

"My Queen!" He hailed her. "Men have spoken of your flawless beauty, fierce dragons, and unequaled soldiers, but they have forgotten your best attribute."

She waved to her bloodriders, stressing that they wait for this encounter to finish before charging in, arakhs flashing. "And what attribute is that, Tyrion Lannister, whose name and deeds proceed him?"

He had come close enough so that he no longer had to yell to be heard. "They have forgotten your mind, your mind that turned a frightened young girl into Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. They do not speak of the burning, fervent dreams that live inside you, dreams that made freedmen of slaves, that named you Breaker of Chains. They neglect your visions, visions that made legend into flesh and bone, that made you Mother of Dragons. They do not sing of what they cannot see, and for that they are fools."

"How will you remedy this foolishness, Tyrion, what greatness do you possess that others cannot see, the mind as well?" Daenerys was intrigued.

"When the body withers, the mind thrives." He shrugged. "There is not a single book in Westeros regarding dragons, history or warfare that I have not memorized, no dire situation I have not negotiated my way out of, and, most importantly no one more driven to sit you on the Iron Throne."

She was puzzled at this. "I have many loyal followers who wish to see me crowned in Westeros, what makes your claim stronger than any of theirs?"

"I have a dream of my own, my Queen, dragons flying over Westeros," his demeanor darkened and a gruesome smile lit up his ghoulish face, "and my sister's head on a pike."

Daenerys considered all the facets of this man before her, dreamer, intellectual and fratricidal zealot. These were things she did not yet have in her counsel. She had many brave and honest men, but none so cunning and blood crazed as the one before her. She made her decision.

"Dreams and vengeance do much to change the world, Lord Tyrion, welcome to my army."


	12. Cressio

Ch 12 - Cressio

It had become hotter as Cressio travelled inland, with rocky overhangs and shaded trees thinning to nothing as the sun beat down on them. Resting during the hottest part of the day was no longer an option, and to conserve water and energy he had slowed Nymeria down to a sluggish canter. They now kept moving continuously, speeding up during the cool night hours. He ate and drank in the saddle, slinging a feed bag on Nymeria when she could manage it. His thighs ached and he was absolutely certain they stank like a dead and rotting aurochs, but he was making good time. He was close to the army and he could feel it.

He could not see it, since the horizon was a thick band of shimmering heat, spreading in every direction. He was starting to question the wisdom of taking a horse instead of something more appropriate, like perhaps a seven humped camel, when Nymeria stumbled and almost sent both of them sprawling into the searing sand.

"A road!" He gasped, standing up in his stirrups as high as he could manage and squinted his eyes to the north, searching far along the paved roadway. He saw nothing but a heat shimmer. Cressio looked south, it was the same. How long had their trek through the desert taken, was he too late, had the army already passed him by?

He paused, wondering, and then remembered who it was he was tracking, none other than Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons. He slouched back in the saddle and threw a hand up to shade his eyes as he stared up at the sky. The sun loomed large and bright, burning the backs of his eyes as he looked for any kind of a sign. It was a bit before noon, and the sun was slightly south of him. He stared towards it with iron resolve, hoping and burning while he waited.

He dared not blink in case he missed anything. Sweat rolled down his forehead, trickling through his finely traced brows and stinging his eyes, but still he kept staring, until finally, quick as a flash, something darted in front of the sun, obscuring the light for no more than a heartbeat.

The dragon. It had to have been. His mind made up, Cressio tangled the hand he had been using for shade into the reins and set Nymeria at a gallop down the pitted cobblestone road. Their resources were low, but they were so close, close enough that he could picture the Silver Queen riding up the road. She would be a shining beacon in the center of her army, surrounded by a forest of tall Unsullied spears, the grateful freedmen reaching for her in hopes of a smile or a light caress. He kept this picture foremost in his mind, because otherwise he would have to think about what may happen if he pushed himself and Nymeria too hard and ran out of water.

Dusk fell in a soft lavender cascade. The light began to fade and with it went Cressio's certainty. Had he somehow been wrong about the glimmer? Had it been some sort of winged desert scavenger instead of a dragon? He was about to abandon all hope and turn around when he saw it. Out on the horizon, wavy in the final remnants of the heat of the day, was a burning torch. He rubbed his eyes and looked on, daring the light to blink out, to reveal the fool he knew he was. Instead, a second followed, and another and another until the torches were scattered throughout the gathering darkness, twinkling like a constellation of earthbound stars.

He raced towards them, the beat of his heart and Nymeria's hooves thundered in his ears. Their music was joined by first one, then another, until the percussive symphony was interrupted by shouting in a language he couldn't understand. The Iron Bank had given him many things in preparation of this journey, but more than a few words of Dothraki were beyond them. He gave them one of the few he knew despite this.

"Khaleesi," he gasped, feeling Nymeria protest and rear beneath him. "Khaleesi!" He begged them, the world spun and the hillside stars took flight as Cressio felt himself falling. His body hit the sand, soft but unyielding as his hands twitched, clutching at reins that weren't there. More noises and shouting, and then the merciful darkness took him.

ooooooooooooo

Ice was falling around them. It was neither snow nor rain, just bitter shards that raced on the wind and cut deep against the pack's thick coats. These were not the fertile lands she was used to. Game had become scarce, and most nights the scent of blood was replaced by the stink of half frozen carrion. Tearing into bloody, steaming haunches was no longer commonplace, now she fought the would be alphas for the first chance to crack open a femur and feast on the marrow within. Some of the pack grumbled behind her, not all were pleased. She growled and snapped her jaws at them, the dissenters skittered back and were silent. She went back to splintering bone, growling when the flutter of wings overhead made her ears perk. 

"Jon." The raven cawed. "Jon Snow!"

A low rumble was the dire wolf's response as she abandoned her carcass and started running once more. The raven dropped off it's limb and soared past her.

"Snow!" The word rang in her ears and she snapped at it in annoyance, feeling her canines graze pinions.

"Jon!" Cressio breathed, feeling the icy cold of the forest drip down his spine.

"Be still!" A small voice commanded in High Valyrian. "Be still or they'll cut you."

Cressio froze, mentally going over his surroundings. He was not in the icy forest, nor was he in the desert sand. He felt cloth and wooden floorboards beneath him, and the sun did not beat down on him. He cracked open an eyelid, surprised to see the one attending him was a small girl, with skin that spoke of the Summer Islands.

His mind felt heavy and slow as he tried to piece everything together. "Where did you learn Valyrian?" He asked the girl, she spoke it cleanly, with no Braavosi accent. Few places still used High Valyrian as a dialect and he was certain the Summer Islands were not one of them.

"The Yunkai, masters of the Unsullied, taught this one many languages before being gifted to our Queen, you are Braavosi, no?"

"Just so." He said, opening his eyes fully and embracing the throbbing aches that surged through his head and body. A heartfelt groan of pain escaped him and he felt the girl's small hands on him. 

"Here," she told him, pressing a rough cup into his hand. "Drink this."

He swallowed half the contents before he even began to taste it, it was warm, salty, and coated his throat. "What is this?" He asked.

"Salted mare's milk." She said, and watched him start to react in disgust. "Your body needs it, you were terribly sick when the outriders found you. You need nourishment, especially if you are to have an audience today."

Cressio finished the horrid concoction in his cup, and immediately felt his pain begin to subside. "You were right." He told the girl. "What's your name?"

"This one is Missendei, what is yours?" She asked.

He handed her the cup, "This one is known as Cressio Menaris, and who are you, that you know the Queen's audience schedule?"

"I am her majesty's trusted servant." She told him, "Who are you, Cressio Menaris, that you may demand audience with Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and Mother of Dragons?"

"I am a trusted servant of the Iron Bank of Braavos." He said, wincing as he stretched his neck and heard several grinding pops from within. The girl’s eyes widened ever so slightly, no one ever expected an emissary of the Iron Bank to turn up half dead in the Dothraki wastes. Cressio had wanted to keep this secret until he met with Daenerys, but his belongings and style of dress would have revealed his identity soon anyway. At least he had stashed away the ridiculous hat they had given him. Only in Braavos, or perhaps a debt starved Free City, could he wear that hat and still be treated with respect, all other cultures laughed at the sheer absurdity of it.

"When does her majesty hold court?" Cressio asked.

"When the sun is highest," Missendei explained. "We are constantly moving and instead of taking full respite and rest from the noonday heat, she orders a canopy drawn up and sees petitioners from horseback."

The rumors are true then. Cressio took caution at those words, a Queen in so much of a hurry she never stopped moving, even to hold court. Here was a ruler about to wage war, he would stake his life on it.

He decided to press his luck. "Where is she headed then, in so much of a hurry?"

"A queen does not explain herself to her servants." She told him, suddenly closed off.

Knowing an obstacle against making an ally when he saw one, Cressio didn't press the matter any further, he decided to try a different tact. "We have a few hours yet before the sun is at its highest, did you have any more of that horrific mare's milk?"

She nodded, still suspicious.

"Pour me another cup then, Missendei, and you can tell me of all the Queen's exploits up to now, since you cannot discuss her future."

The Naathi girl poured him another glass full and started speaking. She started with her earliest memory of Daenerys, Breaker of Chains. She recounted the day the Stormborn first set eyes on the Unsullied of Yunkai.

Cressio simply sat back and listened as the tale unfolded from a perspective he hadn't heard before. He was so silent that Missendei kept looking up from her storytelling reverie, half wondering if her charge had heard enough of her talk and fallen asleep. Each time she looked, enraptured grey eyes met hers from beyond the rim of his wooden cup. There was a hunger there, lost in those stormy depths, a deep longing that pierced her to her very core. The intensity of Cressio's burning gaze became too much, and Missendei faltered, stammering. Her face flushed and she felt hot under his constant stare. She half expected him to make a move towards her, wondering if this was the hunger for child flesh she had heard about in so many men. Missendei felt small and shameful, she was many things for her Queen but a bed slave was not one of them, she took a breath to call in one of the nearby guards when Cressio spoke.

"Why did you stop?" He asked her. "She was about to trade her dragon for an army, her beloved dragon!"

Now she felt shameful for a different reason. It was not her, the small Naathi girl that he was enticed by, it was the exploits of her queen. She was as safe in this wagon as she would be eating fruit in her Queen's chambers. She continued the story, and watched unexpected emotions of joy and surprise escape from the emissary when she revealed how clever her Queen had been all along. 

ooooo

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting, Cressio Menaris of the Iron Bank?" Daenerys spoke in a manner that was non-threatening, yet brooked no argument. Her words were like a Braavo's blade, shining and beautiful, but deadly if you crossed her.

"Your servant has been thorough." He told her, scant moments before his audience he had seen Missendei riding double behind one of Daenerys' Bloodriders, his horse sidled up to the silver white beauty that was his Queen's and Cressio caught Missendei whispering in her ear. "But I would not have hidden the information if you had asked. In fact, I have come to extend the hospitality of the Iron Bank to you, Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Andals, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, and last of the Targaryen bloodline."

"Queen of the Andals? Are you certain?" She asked him. "If I recall correctly, the Iron Bank had done much to supply the war coffers of the Usurpers who occupy my throne in Westeros."

Cressio shrugged, he had to tread the fine line between stalwart ally and dutiful banker. "Usurpers that win a rebellion often have valid claims to lands and titles, it is not our place to question. But I will be blunt, since, from the stories I have heard in my short and restful sojourn this morning, you are a woman of cunning and action. King's Landing has fallen into arrears."

"That seems to be a concern of the Usurpers, not of my own."

Cressio flung out his bargaining chip. "There is a saying regarding prompt repayment of the Iron Bank of Bravos, do you know it?" He waited, speaking the phrase along with her.

"The Iron Bank will have its due."

"Indeed, your Grace. The bank will have its due, and currently, the word from the emissary who meets with these Usurpers of yours is that 'the Iron Bank will wait.' We find this unacceptable. In the Free Cities, when a ruler reneges on his pact with the Iron Bank, he quickly finds himself deposed, and a new ruler set up in his stead."

Daenerys thought about this. "Why have you come now then? Why did you not come before, when I ruled over a city of freed men and needed nothing to flourish but commerce?" She looked off into the distance, as if she could see her hope realized. "That dream is now nothing but blood and ash, but it could have been paradise..."

He could see the loss, bitter on her soul. The violet fire in her eyes dimmed ever so slightly. How could he possibly explain the truth to her? I'm sorry, your Grace, we didn't give you a second thought when you were queen over some backwater slave city, we were too busy backing Stannis Baratheon's claim, who has now disappeared.

"I will say only that the Bank takes interest in who presides over Westeros more than who rules over the slaves of Essos." Or at least, that is what they told him when he took the assignment. He sensed a lie, but did not press further. After all, he must still serve the Bank, regardless of the reason.

"You would wish that I abandon my quest to unify and free the east, you especially, a Braavosi from the Free Cities?"

Cressio gave her a look. "Am I a free Braavosi taking lessons in slavery from the last of the Targaryen bloodline, the dragonlords who enslaved us in the first place?" He watched her pale skin flush with embarrassment, the sudden rush of rose made her eyebrows stand out vividly. Cressio wondered how a khaleesi of the eastern deserts maintained such a pale complexion despite the sweltering sun. He himself had become several shades darker since he had come ashore. 

Perhaps it was the Targaryen dragon's blood. 

The blush made Daenerys look her age, and Cressio found that endearing in a way that tugged at something deep within him. It was easy to forget how young the Mother of Dragons actually was, with only a meager handful of years spanning between them. Before this audience, the Silver Queen had seemed so remote and unapproachable, but this young woman standing before him, pale white eyebrows luminescent in a sea of pink, this was someone he could relate to.

The strength of her charisma as a leader was known far and wide, and was generally attributed as one of her most deadly assets, but what her opponents never understood was that it wasn't some act designed to make men follow her absolutely, it was simply who Daenerys was. That facet of her was more compelling than any act could ever be, and Cressio found that very potent charisma twining its way through him, warring with his oath to serve the Iron Bank.

"Valar dohaeris." He muttered the oath under his breath, trying to strengthen the chinks in the armor of his integrity.

"But to whom must they serve?" Daenerys responded, her eyes bright and stunning as she rallied from her faux pas, and he realized he had been caught.

"I am a servant of the Iron Bank," he said, "and it is in the interest of the Iron Bank that you sit the Iron Throne of Westeros."

"I am not sure what intelligence you have seen regarding me, servant Cressio, but I have never been in the habit of fulfilling the interests of those I have never met, no matter how deep their pockets." She smiled ever so slightly, and he found himself wanting to please her, to turn that mysterious half smile into a frank grin, to hear her laughter ring out against against the canopy of the tent.

Perhaps even to wring out some other noises of pleasure.

"So tell me, Cressio Menaris, Water Dancer of the Free City of Braavos," a subtle motion and the shining silver horse she rode sidled up against his, "what is your interest?" Their legs brushed, and he could feel the heat of her through the cloth he wore. Daenerys burned hotter than any desert, and her smell was heady and intoxicating. 

"You." He gasped. "My interest is you." Soft fingertips on his jawline, steady despite the rocking of the animals beneath them. "I want to see you rule over the Westerosi of King's Landing, birthright stealing fools that they are."

"Why?"A searing kiss, hot and wanton with potential. 

"Vengeance." He ground out, fighting to keep his composure as she incinerated his defenses.

She pulled away. "What do you want?" She asked, and Cressio saw nothing but molten violet before him.

"You." He whispered, before throwing caution to the winds and returning the kiss with all the fury of a Winter storm.

The sound of applause shattered the moment and Cressio turned, red faced and sweating, towards the intruder.

"Bravo, to the young Braavosi. That was an excellent demonstration of loyalty to our Queen, as well as an absolute disregard for the trust of your previous employer." A small man with mismatched eyes and a curious looking saddle emerged through a gap in the tent.

"Lannister Imp." Cressio snarled, sure of his judgement on instinct alone. He was not entirely certain how he knew the man before him.

The dwarf met his accusation with icy politeness. "Both those names are quickly becoming abhorrent to me, though they are less frequently known in the East. If you are to have any civil discussion with the Queen's Counsel in the future, my name is Tyrion, please use it." 

"The Queen's Counsel, you?" Cressio was taken aback.

"He is." Daenerys explained. "I seem to suddenly be drowning in eccentric and well intentioned men, he arrived only a day before your encounter with my outriders."

He had been going about this all wrong.

"Daenerys, my queen," Cressio began, "may I forgo this dance of ours and speak plainly?" He asked.

She looked at him, suspicious, "That depends entirely on your next statement." She answered, but he felt the hot violet of her eyes bore into his stormy grey. It was the first time she looked at he, Cressio, instead of the avatar of the possibly dangerous and untrustworthy Iron Bank. It was also the first time the eunuch had felt like a man.

"Take this offer." He told her. "I have seen the might of your army, I have seen the ferocity of your dragons, and now that I have seen the wonder of the Silver Queen, there is no power or usurper in all of Westeros that could match you. Take this offer and I will stand with you until we have burnt every last pretender out of your throne and only your radiance remains. You have collected a force the likes of none other, but you are stranded, the only dragons you lack are golden ones. Take this offer and use it to cross this Narrow Sea and claim your birthright." He held her gaze, waiting.

"What are my guarantees, Cressio of the Iron Bank, that I will not be thrown along the wayside like the last usurper you backed?"

"There is me. I will stand with you until the very end, on my honor as a man." Cressio swore.

"An interesting prospect, that." Daenerys looked him up and down. "Are you a man, Cressio Menaris? So slight of build you are, and suspiciously free of whiskers. I run an army composed almost entirely of eunuchs, did you think I would not know?"

"A man is not the sum of his parts," he ground out. "I thought that you, of all people, would understand that." He felt his voice catch. Again, he saw the flush color her skin and he realized he couldn't stay angry with her. "But if you would prefer I swear upon something that is true, I swear it upon my belief in you, my Queen." He spoke those last words softly, almost tenderly.

"I believe you, Cressio, but there are...complications." She admitted, looking away. "Plans that have already been set into motion."

"If you are speaking of your plans to assault Pentos, that is common knowledge, the Bank knew about it long before, it is one of the reasons I am here."

"It cannot be undone, I am indebted to them." Daenerys looked conflicted.

"I am an Iron Banker, there is no debt larger than my coffers." He countered. 

"It is not a debt of gold, it is a debt of blood." Daenerys said. "The Windblown came to my aid at Mereen, and the Tattered Prince's price was Pentos."

"A sellsword is a sellsword, my Queen, whatever the Prince's reasons are for desiring Pentos, his Windblown desire gold more than the Free City." He took a bond note from the folds of his waistcoat. "I came with more than my horse. Whatever price they name, no matter how high, I am authorized to pay it, but only on the condition that you do not take Pentos. That is my charge as an emissary of the Iron Bank."

Tyrion chimed in, knowing value when it revealed itself. "And though I am quick to abandon my Lannister roots, as those that still live with that name are on my list of people to kill, I have most certainly retained my love for gold. Was that a blank bond note from the Iron Bank you had just revealed?"

"It is." Cressio said. "But it is worth nothing if the issuer falls victim to treachery before the sum has been paid out."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Tyrion smiled at him. "We both want the same thing, noble Cressio, Daenerys crowned, sitting atop the Iron Throne, and the usurpers in flames."

"So we are in agreement then?" Cressio asked, suspicious.

"Absolutely," Tyrion replied, "in fact, I had just counseled her with precisely the same advice, but with one small change." He smiled and the glee that sparked into his flat black eye rang warning bells in Cressio's mind. "Instead of using gold to turn the sellswords, I proposed dragonfire."


	13. The Red Priest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange man arrives, bearing gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to strix04 for the lovely comments. Reviews are my lifeblood and keep me going when really I would just rather nap than write (read: 5 month old baby at home), so thank you, Thank You, THANK YOU! Unfortunately I already established that being attracted to Missandei means one 'hungers for child flesh' and I had previously barbecued Daario in the first Daenerys chapter, so he will not be making an appearance for a love square. I DO however have a different sort of square planned in the future, so there will be jealously and push/pull at some point, it just requires everyone being on a different continent.

Chapter 13 - The Red Priest

 In the streets and taverns of Volantis, men had painted clawed stripes across their cheeks in hopes that they could call upon some of the bravery inherent to the city's tiger cloaks. There was no one else there to defend them. Come and gone was the Golden Company, led by their Dragonlord, Aegon. They had snatched up every man who sold their sword or thirsted for adventure.  Missing as well was the great and fabled Volantene naval fleet. It had already been sent out to lay siege to Meereen, a fool's errand too little and too late, since the city could not recall them and the threat had instead marched right up to their city gates. The remaining men left behind were broken, meek, and cowardly. The one thing that bound them together, damaged and makeshift weapons in hand, was the drink they all stank of. It made them braver, brave enough to try and face the oncoming army, but not nearly brave enough to defeat them.

 "You are all fools!" Benerro shouted at them. "Your death will be a waste, and your life a disservice to the Lord of Light." The red priest paced up and down the lines, smoke trailed along the ground after him where his robes brushed stone. He snapped his fingers and shouted a word. A stream of flame shot from his mouth and the Valyrian glyph for savior hung suspended in the air. "The Dragon Queen is Azor Ahai reborn, only she can save us from the coming of the Long Night. The very stone of this city will burn if you are foolish enough to fight her."

 "That's not what the Triarchs are saying." One of the free men spoke up. "They say that once we kill the Whore of Meereen, the gold and gems will flow like water."

 "They are wrong." Benerro said, certain in his faith. "Once the dragons and the Unsullied fight, the only wealth that will flow are blood and fire, and you fools will be caught in the heart of it. Repent now! Join me and the Fiery Hand and welcome Azor Ahai with open arms."

 "You are the fool, priest." The challenger spat, stepping forward with a chipped blade in hand. His face was hard and he looked ready to fight.

 "Thrice a fool and thrice I name you one." Benerro said, as a cloud of darkness flew from his sleeve. "Now you err unto death, as your soul passes under the shadow and away from the Lord of Light."

 A gasp rose up from the crowd as the hot headed attacker was drowned in shadow. The span of a moment passed before the shadow crept over the ground and headed towards the group, scattering the faint of heart and causing the tiger cloaks, zealous adepts of Red R'hllor, to turn their offensive towards the gathered free men. The drunkards fled, and the shadow with them.

 "Red Priest Benerro," one of the tiger cloaks saluted with a fist to the chest, "our city is dark and full of terrors, how best might we serve?"

 Were Benerro less dedicated to his god, he might have smiled at that, but instead he turned them to their righteous task. "Come with me," he ordered, "a shadow of a dragon does not a dragon make. We must invite the cleansing fire into our city as well as our hearts."

 Together they marched up to the front gates, the city's roster of slave guards fell in step with them, as well as the citizens that had found truth with the Lord of Light. It was not Benerro and the Fiery Hand that faced the men holding the gate, it was an army of Light.

 Vogesso the merchant's voice could be overheard above the din of activity at the gates. He had run for Triarch last season, but he was a slave broker, and his coffers had emptied when that damned woman shattered Yunkai and Astapor. His votes had come woefully short, but his hunger for command had never diminished, and it was here, with the promise of a renewed slave trade within his grasp, that he gave that hunger free reign.

 "Archers, man your posts atop the wall, choose targets at will once they come into range!" He shouted, cupping ring encrusted fingers around his bearded maw to amplify the sound.

 "Vogesso!" Benerro shouted, waiting for the man to turn.

 The merchant turned and smiled, running careful fingers down the curled tips of his glistening beard. "Ah, Benerro." He said, his smile echoing down his face in multiple chins. "I see you have brought me reinforcements."

 "I have brought you nothing." Benerro said, his eyes were dark and the fiery tattoos covering his face seemed to writhe about on his skin. "Back down and open the gates to her before it is too late."

 "I see," Vogesso said, his smile fading. "I am afraid you are a bit too late, any moment now and you will hear the screams of her front line."

 "It is you who are too late," the Red Priest said, his face a mask. "Targaryen dragon riders do not have front lines."

 A blast of heat made the merchant turn in time to see a glimpse of black through the rippled haze of burning smoke. Screams split the air and the flaming body of an archer fell from the ramparts to land soddenly at Vogesso's feet. The skin and armor had crisped and melted away, leaving behind a bloodied mess of charred muscle and blackened bone.

 Vogesso screamed.

 "This is your final warning." A woman's voice rang out, clear and bright over the din of carnage. "Open your gates or burn."

 The merchant had had enough of playing general, what little sanity he had left told him to run and hide and never look back. Benerro's last glimpse was of his large backside as he dove through the window of a wine sink.

 Time seemed to still, with the perfect silence marred by the groans of the dying. All around him, Benerro could see the wild eyes of the men, told to attack something that would feel their arrows no more than the bite of a flea. They turned to him, pleading for direction.

 "You heard the Mother of Dragons," he told them, "open the gates or die like your comrades."

 All around him men rushed into action, a ragged stream of humanity flowing down the rampart stairs and towards the gates. There was shouting as the men organized themselves around the huge doors, and then a unified cry as they surged and lifted the large bolts barring the way. The iron shod doors swung inwards with a bang.

 "Spare me!" One man cried, breaking away from the crowd and throwing himself prostrate into the newly opened gateway.

 In through the gates marched the beginnings of an honor guard, though they were difficult to see through the billowing smoke and the dust kicked up by their boots.

 The dark outlines of the Unsullied's towering spears and shields came into view, they parted and in the center, flanked by two hulking mounted Dothraki, stood the fabled Silver Queen.

 "I am pleased to see that someone in this city listens to reason," she said, eyeing every last man with that unnerving bejeweled stare, "to whom do you owe your lives?" She asked, stepping forward and laying a gentle hand on the man lying prostrate before her. A whispered word and the man looked up, unshed tears shining in his eyes, before scrambling to his feet and bowing profusely as he retreated back into the crowd.

 A moment's silence and then a soft murmur rushed around them, so quietly that Benerro could barely make out the words.

 "Priest." They said, and speaking gave the men strength. "Red Priest Benerro."

 He approached the Prince that was Promised.

 "My queen," Benerro said, "it was I that ordered the gates opened, but it was no act of courage, I merely serve the Lord of Light, and it is his wish that you lead us with your army in battle against the Other and halt the coming of the Long Night."

 "There are many, many men that wish me to lead my army on their behalf, Priest Benerro, who is this enemy you speak of, and why does your cause deserve the largest army west of Asshai?"

 "Because there is one still larger," Benerro said, "in the North, beyond the wall, the cold, dead things take life. They number one, then many as they seek the hot blood of the living and freeze it to their will. Those they take remember nothing, only the hunger in the cold is reflected out of their ashen faces and ice blue eyes. I know of your task to take the Iron Throne of Westeros, but if the minions of the Other shatter the Wall, there will be no Westeros, no people to rule over, only ice and darkness, and the Long Night as the world slips into endless Winter."

 His words caused her to still, and Benerro could see the ghosts of her past stirring inside her mind.

 "It breathes inside you." He said, "You know my words for truth."

 "Not truth," she answered, "but something half seen. This Wall you speak of, is it carved from ice?"

 "Carved from ice and miles tall, there is none other like it in all the world." The priest said.

 Her gaze turned inwards, and Benerro thought he had lost her, he was about to renew his plea when the sound of screaming caught both their attention.

 "Dragon!" A tinker ran down the alleyway, clutching a raggedly severed limb to his chest. "There's a dragon in the city!"

 Daenerys looked up, puzzled, and Benerro saw the sigh of relief escape her when he followed her gaze and saw the black bulk of her mythic creature still circling above the city.

 "Not yours?" The Red Priest asked, watching as she spoke tersely to a Dothraki blood guard.

 The Dothraki shouted a command and Benerro felt the faint vibration of hoofbeats.

 She looked at him, and he saw the uncertainty threatening to show on her face. "If they are not my children, then they are not dragons."

 A beautiful silver white mare burst through the gates, followed by several other mounted warriors. Daenerys broke into a run as the mare charged to the fore. Benerro watched as she tangled her fingers in the flaxen mane and leapt aboard the naked steed, shouting commands in both high Valyrian and Dothraki as she sped towards the source of the commotion.

 The Red Priest hitched up his robes and ran, stumbling to keep up as another mare galloped past, where the Silver Queen's mount had matched the color of her namesake, this one took a darker hue, its coat reminded him of steel and stormclouds. The rider swore in Valyrian and Benerro thought he heard the timber of Braavo in his voice. Hoofbeats and raised voices followed soon after and the priest stepped off the road, lest he be trampled by the very warriors he was attempting to recruit.

  


Chapter 13.5 - Cressio

 "Stupid, stupid, stupid." He chastised himself, digging his heels into Nymeria's side as he urged her onwards. He had argued the point with her for hours. What better way to show a Free City that you are civilized and uninterested in their coffers than to have an Iron Bank emissary by your side, ridiculous hat included? In the end, Tyrion's plan had won out, and the twisted dwarf had gotten to see first hand what dragonfire does to men. So had Cressio, and it made him intensely uninterested in ever seeing those results again.

 There was panic in the streets and he gave Nymeria free rein, lest he inadvertently pull her straight into a blindly running, three hundred pound merchant, of which there had been a few. The shops and alleys flew past as he tried to make up for Daenerys' head start. Finally, the narrow street opened up into a plaza with a shattered fountain, and Cressio found an unlikely scene before him.

 Facing off, brilliant and shining and, he winced, small by comparison, Daenerys and her Silver stood in front of a giant green dragon. She was shouting commands and terms of endearment in high Valyrian, but the beast didn't react in the slightest. Even Drogon, unruly and dangerous as he was, took notice of Daenerys when she spoke, if only to ignore her...

 Once he had joined up with her khalasaar made army, Cressio had become privy to some lesser known secrets. Namely that Daenerys, world renowned Mother of Dragons, had very little control over her deadly brood. It had taken almost an entire flock of sheep, two horses and an aurochs for Drogon to carry out Tyrion's planned display of power.

 A male voice bellowed and the dragon shifted. That's when Cressio noticed the rider. Clad in full plate armor emblazoned with a golden squid, the man could only be Ironborn. He could think about why he knew that later, now was a time for action.

 The snakelike head reared back and the dragon hissed, revealing a cavernous maw and rows of razor sharp teeth, each tall as a dagger and black as night. The Silver reared but held its ground, and some of Cressio's bowstrung tightness relaxed at the sight of Daenerys remaining mounted. The rider shouted a command in Westerosi, a language the dragons knew nothing about, and Cressio stared on in shock as the ferocious creature ceased its aggressive display and calmed. Another Westerosi word, Cressio thought it was the word 'Down,' and an emerald tinged wing flared out towards the ground to allow the Ironborn to dismount.

 Cressio's could see his look of surprise mirrored on Daenerys' face as the dragon remained still and prone while it waited for its rider to conduct his business.

 "Who are you? What magic is this?" Daenerys asked the stranger. Westerosi sounded so much harder for her, perhaps it was because she did not use the language very often, except when speaking to Tyrion. Cressio thought the language difference existed because in Westeros, she was naught but a rebel upstart; here in the East, where Valyrian and Dothraki flowed like the Rhoyne, she was recognized as a queen, and her words reflected that.

 "I am your husband, champion Victarion of House Greyjoy, who rule in the Iron Islands of Westeros, and I have come to pay my bride price." He said, and with a flourish revealed a hunting horn, taller than the Ironman himself, that looked to be carved from pure dragonglass.

 "I have had many suitors and at least one husband shower me with gifts." Daenerys said. "And my bride price has ranged from an army of Dothraki screamers to the safety of freed men within their city walls, but this is the first time a horn has been presented, and a bride price named without gold or jewels involved. What qualifies you, a Western stranger, as my future husband and consort?"

 "Silver Queen Daenerys, whose beauty is fabled far and wide and fails to describe even half your loveliness. This horn hails from the ruins of Valyria, dredged forth by the bravest of the Ironborn to sail the Smoking Sea. Dismount and I shall show you why those other suitors offered only a pittance." He slowly twisted the horn through his hands and Cressio could see her interest pique as the runes running along the red gold and Valyrian steel bands caught the smoky sunlight of the city and sparkled.

 "Don't do it." Cressio breathed, hoping he was mostly obscured by the ruins of the fountain and that this Westerosi, Victarion, had been too busy keeping his dragon from eating its mother to notice him perched atop Nymeria as he made his breakneck entrance into the square earlier. He bit off a sharp curse and only just held back from bolting Nymeria forward as Daenerys dismounted and took a step towards the Ironborn.

 "You said it comes from where Valyria once stood?" She asked, taking another step and reaching out toward the horn, her actions were slow and tentative, as though she were entranced. The runes sparked brighter and Daenerys shook her head, as if she were trying to clear it of a noise no one else could hear. "Does it have a name?"

 "It does." Victarion said proudly, standing up a bit straighter. Another few steps and Daenerys would be within arm's reach of the newcomer. Cressio seethed from his hiding place. "It is called Dragonbinder." He tilted it forward ever so slightly, forcing Daenerys to take the final steps that would close the space between them.

 "Does it work?" She asked the armor clad Victarion, sparing a wistful look towards the well behaved Rhaegal, for the last time she had seen him, he had been chained in darkness.

 He responded with a smile as she laid a reverent hand on the glossy surface. "It's working right now." He said softly, his large, metal clad fingers encircling her wrist. "It's caught me two dragons already." The smile turned into a sneer and Victarion's grip tightened. He wrenched Daenery's hand away from the horn and spun her close to his chest, bloodstained knife at the ready. "Let's make it three." He whispered into her ear, his breath harsh on her skin. "Call him," he dared her, his knife's edge tight against her throat, "call your black giant, see if he obeys like my Rhaegal here."

 She called out to the heavens, a single plea in stricken High Valyrian. Victarion looked up, waiting to see if it worked, and failed to notice the hoofbeats in time before a small but quickly moving body struck him and knocked him off balance as a horse thundered past. Daenerys took advantage of his slip in concentration and pushed the dagger bearing arm away from her with all of her strength. Victarion's posture gave, ever so slightly, but it was enough that she could wriggle out of his grasp and step away, maintaining a healthy distance between her and her erstwhile suitor at all times.

 "Victarion!" Cressio's voice roared as he charged the Ironborn, "I mock your title of 'champion' and call you coward, I challenge you to a duel, the one that lives will walk away with both the dragon and the queen."

 "I accept." Victarion said, slinging the horn across his back before drawing an axe larger than half of Cressio's entire body. "Your pride will forfeit your life." He swung the axe downwards in a tight arc. Victarion was faster than most men his size, but the Ironborn were merely sailors, they had never danced on the waters of their homeland. Cressio sidestepped the falling blade at the last possible second, the axe crashed into the ground and split several cobblestones in half.

 "Just so." Cressio said, saluting his blade at Daenerys as he clicked his teeth together. "Shall we give it another go?"

 Victarion wrenched his blade free from the broken stone and came again, anger and malice plain in his features. Cressio glanced off each one of his strikes, landing a riposte each time that snuck through every chink and gap in Victarion's suit of full plate armor. Each wound was shallow, but there had been many attacks on either side of the duel, and Victarion was beginning to pay dearly for his frenzied assault. Trails of blood began to seep out between the shining plates of his armor.

 "Enough of this play." Victarion decided, he started to yell a command at Rhaegal, but Cressio stepped forward and flicked the tip of his dueling saber across his mouth, silencing the word in exchange for a scream of rage as he flayed open Victarion's lips.

 "We do this as men, or we do not do this at all." He tisked, raising his blade as he resumed the stance of a Braavosi water dancer.

 Not a single word from Victarion. The only sound was the whistle of steel cutting air and the small grunts Victarion made as Cressio's blade found its every mark. Soon the cobbles were slick with blood and the Westerosi who would be king was breathing heavily as he spit red tinged foam from the remains of his broken mouth. His leather armor catches had all met Cressio's blade, and his once impenetrable suit was hanging off him in remnants. Victarion's chest heaved as he tried to draw air, and his formidable axe, which he had swung so fiercely before, remained scant inches from the very stones he had shattered earlier. All the strength had been bled out of him.

 "Do you yield?" Cressio asked him, waiting.

 Victarion seemed to mumble something quietly, and Cressio had to step forward and strain to hear it, so ruinous was his face. He only caught the tail end of it, and by then it was almost too late.

 "-but rises again, harder and stronger!" Victarion took his last bit of strength and swung his axe in a half circle in front of him, a move ensured to cut Cressio in half, or at the very least, disembowel him. The blades were so large that the Braavosi had nowhere to go, backing up and dodging were out of the question, there was only one escape.

 Cressio dove forward and down, tucking and rolling past the impenetrable wall of death Victarion had cast before him before rising up on one knee, dagger in hand, and burying it in the headstrong Ironborn's throat. The axe fell from his nerveless fingers with a crash, his previously cocky voice was now no more than a gurgling wheeze as he futilely grasped at the blade protruding from his neck. Cressio stood up from his crouched position, his face inches from the panicking Victarion.

 "You should have yielded." He said, stepping back as Victarion's eyes widened and stilled. The Ironborn fell, lifeless, at his feet. Only then did he raise his eyes and seek out Daenerys. He expected disgust and loathing, for that fight was less finesse and more bloodbath than he had encountered in quite some time. What he read on her face was neither, and as she came closer, since he had rid them of their immediate threat, all he could see was concern. He realized, to his surprise, as he sheathed his dueling blade and retrieved his dagger, it was concern for him.

 "Are you hurt?" She asked him, tenderly checking him all over for injuries.

 Cressio shook his head. "No, my queen, none of this blood is mine." He flashed her a quick smile, "But if this is how you treat me when I have no injuries, I may just get one to find out what comes next."

 She hauled him towards her by grasping fistfuls of his shirt. "I'll show you what comes next you-"

 " _Khaleesi_!" Her bloodriders called, suddenly rounding the corner into the plaza of the broken fountain. Daenerys looked up from their playful aside and ferocity filled her, changing her body language entirely. Cressio almost felt sorry for the tardy Dothraki, this was not a merciful queen that was coming to meet them.

 She stooped when she walked past Victarion's corpse, stopping to rip off his kraken emblazoned chest plate, which remained attached by a single half sheared leather strap. Cressio had cut through everything else. One sharp tug and it came away in her hands, a few more steps and she was close enough to throw the plate at her lead bloodrider. She shouted something at him in Dothraki, pointing furiously at the piece of armor. Cressio watched in carefully stone faced amusement as the large, hulking horsemen shrank under the onslaught of their queen's fury. The bloodriders said something back to her, and then they quickly scattered in all directions throughout the city, with a few riding back out towards the front gates.

 While he waited for Daenerys to return, Cressio crouched down and undid the strapping that held the horn tight to Victarion's corpse. The large instrument felt smooth to the touch and warm. It felt hotter than the desert sun would provide, the stone of the horn, if dragonglass could be called stone, burned like something alive.

 He traced his fingers over the sharp, chiseled edges of the runes engraved in the dark surface.

 " _'I am Dragonbinder. No mortal man shall sound me and live_.' I suppose that's fairly straightforward." Cressio mused. "But then how did he..." He looked at the patiently waiting Rhaegal, wondering what they would do with the dragon now that its master was dead and it was ignoring its mother. It was obviously an incredibly dangerous creature, should they kill it, could they kill it? Would Daenerys even let them try? These monsters were, after all, her children.

 He was pondering what to do when Daenerys returned, interrupting his musings.

 “Did you think he was telling the truth?” She asked. “Rhaegal certainly behaves much differently than the last time I saw him.” Daenerys spared a glance towards the quietly resting dragon before turning her attention back to the horn. Her fingers traced the runes on the band that Cressio hadn’t seen yet.

 “‘ _Blood for fire, fire for blood_.’ What do you suppose that means?” She wondered aloud. “ Perhaps blood magic? Unless…”

Their glances locked as they both arrived at the same conclusion.

 “Fire and blood!” Cressio shouted, suddenly excited. “‘No mortal man may sound the horn and live,’ but he took it from Valyria. The legends about you are true, aren’t they? The ones surrounding the pyre that birthed your dragons?”

 Daenerys’ excitement faded slightly and her tone softened as she remembered the loss she faced on that day. “Yes.” She answered, her voice catching. “There are many nights that I regret my actions leading up to that day, but today, today I feel as though there were a reason for the pain and hardship.” Daenerys made her decision, taking the horn from Cressio’s hands, she pointed it toward the east, where her army stood. “Today is the day I take my birthright back.”

 She took a breath and put the horn to her lips.

 

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

 

The very air around them shook, and Daenerys and the horn began to crackle with an unearthly heat. The runes that ran around the horn flared, first red then white hot as the noise continued to surround them.

 

aaaaRREEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

 

Cressio took a step back as Daenerys herself began to glow with the same unearthly light as the runes. He was mildly afraid for his own safety, after all, there was no fire running through his veins, only the cistern of a water dancer.

 

aaaaRREEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

 

Rubble began to fall from the upper stories of the ramparts and buildings that surrounded them. The fountain collapsed even further into a small mound of debris, then suddenly, the noise stopped, and the vibrations from the horn were replaced by a huge amount of air being displaced.

 Drogon landed before them, his huge bulk of muscle and sinew suddenly graceful rather than terrifying.

He peacefully dropped his head to the ground and flared out a wing, waiting patiently for his mother.

 

 


	14. Ch 13 - Deep Underground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So yeah, long time no post. Originally I sat down and had every intention of writing Daenerys Crosses the Narrow Sea Riding Drogon, but this seemed to come out instead. I apologize for any typos as my 8 month old son decided he wanted to help Mommie write fanfiction and I may have not caught all his extra special keystrokes. Also apparently I've become a Bran/Meera 'shipper, definitely didn't see that one coming...

**Meera**

Suddenly, as quickly as they had descended on her and her brother, the Children of the Forest backed into the dark corners of the room they had been confined to. They appeared to be waiting, but for what, she was unsure.

Bran's raven had fled, leaving only the Reeds and an unsure Hodor to face off against their possibly violent hosts.

"Hodor!" She yelled out the giant's name in a hoarse whisper, lest any loud noises set the Children back to their rite of blood sacrifice. "Hodor, come!"

Hodor looked back at her, confused for a moment, before shambling into action with a surely uttered "Hodor."

Meera reluctantly stepped back from her brother, lying so still and vulnerable on the stone table. "Gently," she urged their large friend.

And Hodor was, for a man so big, his hands were delicate when they needed to be. She had seen him forget, during the start of their travels, while he was carrying Bran, and the results usually meant she would need to spend time tending to an errant cut or bruise left on her Prince from a branch that swung too low or a rock ledge just above Hodor's field of view. He usually took the ministrations stoically, trying to be tough and put on a good front, but Meera found she missed the quiet time spent at night together by the fire, with just her and Bran. Usually Jojen was preoccupied with deciphering a message from a green dream to be much company, and Hodor's limited vocabulary was only entertaining for so long.

More and more she found herself alone with Bran, talking to the boy who could not walk, but whose mind ran free. He had told her stories and legends of heroes and monsters of his homeland, and in turn she had traded tales from her own. She had begun to look forward to it at the end of each of their days, which were always stressful and fraught with danger. She had to be doubly on guard for food and foe, since no one else in their party could hunt, save Summer.

The direwolf had been a problem of its own, she welcomed the meat that Summer brought into camp, but she had felt Bran the boy slipping away more and more each day. Each skinchange was longer than the last, and as food became scarcer and scarcer, she was left alone with her thoughts and failures as Jojen green dreamed and Bran warged himself away from starvation.

She had thought that maybe, coming here to learn from the Three Eyed Crow, that things would change, and they had, but not for the better.

Bran the boy was now becoming Bran the Greenseer, and he now had access to more than just his direwolf, now he could fly, and see with a thousand eyes and one, and while he was away flying, Meera saw Jojen slip deeper and deeper into the dark sadness that hung on him like a cloak. He was sickening and she could do nothing to help, not even her few words exchanged with the Children were enough to get him the food or potions he needed to heal.

Then came that night, where the moon hung high and bright as a sickle, and their gentle hosts turned savage and took Jojen from her. It had taken a day to find him, he had been taken far down the dark and twisting tunnels of the caverns, and she had come without a moment left to spare. Any longer and it would have been his lifeblood pouring out into that bowl of seed paste.

She had thrown herself over her brother without a thought. Meera had felt his hands flap uselessly underneath her, as if to tell her to leave him to his fate, but she had had enough of leaving things to dreams and destiny. This one act, rash and insane as it might be, that was one thing she had control over, and no dreamer or seer could take that from her.

Meera took stock of their current situation, as well as the burning cuts that now liberally coated her body, and wondered if either she or Jojen would be able to survive for very much longer. She led Hodor back the way she had come, feeling her strength trickling away as it bled out along her skin and soaked her clothing. Meera stoically marched forward, willing herself to place one foot after another down the dim and darkened corridors. She wished she had taken the time to steal a torch from the ritual hall, but the memory of those knives in her flesh sent shivers down her spine and no amount of darkness could make her go back to retrieve one. Instead they alternated between pitch darkness and the eerie glow of fungus that dotted the Children's cave system. She urged Hodor forward as fast as they could manage without hurting Jojen, stumbling over roots and rocks in the darkness, and occasionally the errant bone. It had taken her a whole day of careful tracking to get to where they were, but they did not have that long to get back.

And what would they do once they did get back, and who would greet them? Bran's raven had fled, and she had no idea why. Was he stopping the ritual by dealing with the Three Eyed Crow directly, had he used Jojen's blood to become a full fledged greenseer and abandoned them in favor of absolute power? Meera had no idea, and her doubts ate away at her as she turned one corner after the other. She trailed her hand along a crumbling wall and entered a room she hadn't remembered seeing before, or had she? It was hard to tell, the creeping lethargy stole over her and made her head swim. She heard a voice echo in the small chamber, telling Hodor they should stop and rest.

The giant settled down on the floor and Meera realized belatedly that the voice had been her own. She wanted to recall the order, to stop was death, the only way out of this trap was to keep moving. She forced her limbs forward, but they felt as though they had been encased in the freezing mud pits common in the Neck. The pinpricks of light that surrounded them started to grow dim, and slow red pulses began to creep in along the sides of her field of view, flashing in time with her heartbeat. Meera felt herself falling, and tried to push herself back up, but her scrabbling hands did nothing but rend gouges into the soft earth beneath them. A stillness settled over her, and the last thing she saw were Hodor's eyes in the darkness, blinking slowly as he patiently waited for her next order.

The heat beat against her face, and the light surrounding her was so bright that Meera could see it with her eyes shut. She was certain that she had died, that this was the afterlife, and now she would find out if they had been right, the Crannogmen, to worship the old gods instead of the Seven that seemed to flourish everywhere south of the Neck. She opened her eyes and before her was a man, with the chiseled look common to the northern lords, clothed all in dark furs and holding a glowing sword.

"You're one of the Northern gods, aren't you, please tell me you're not the...what do those Southroners call him...? You're not the...Warrior are you?" Meera said, afraid of eternal punishment.

The Warrior looked a bit confused at that, and a rich, musical voice chuckled behind him. "I told you not to ignore the trappings of power." A woman stepped forward into the light cast by the Warrior's blade. She was clothed head to toe in rich red silks. Meera's nose caught a rich, spicy smell whenever she moved. She glowed as well, but instead of a sword, the light emitted from a single large ruby set at her throat in a sheet of intricate golden links. None of the myths and fables told amongst the Crannogmen made any mention of a fiery woman in red, so Meera was at a loss to her identity. The Warrior had yet to answer her, and actually looked quite uncomfortable, she was about to ask for his name once more, but a scrabbling sound caught her attention.

"Summer!" Meera said, recognizing the wolf immediately as he bowled into her. There was something familiar in his manner, familiar, but different than Summer's normal behavior.

"Bran?" Meera asked softly, pulling back to look deep into the wolf's golden eyes. A quiet intelligence stared back at her, beckoning.

"You knew Brandon Stark?" The Warrior asked her.

"I  _know_  him." She stressed the tense. "Or at least, I think I know him, there's no telling what has happened in the last few hours, the Children value him as a greenseer, but our latest actions have increased the danger here a thousand fold."

"Wait," the Warrior said, "you mean to tell me that Bran, Brandon Stark, is alive?"

"Who is he to you?" Meera asked, staggering like a drunkard as she attempted to stand. A suspicion that she had not quite made it to the afterlife suddenly flared, and her instinct to protect his identity rose to the fore.

"He is my brother," the Warrior confessed, "maybe the only one I have left..."

"You're Jon Snow!" Meera realized, "You're with the Night's Watch, are they here, did you raise an army to fight the White Walkers?"

"They are not with me." Jon looked embarrassed. "My only companions are the Lady Melisandre and Ghost." A large white direwolf slipped in beside him, easily topping Summer by the span of a few hands, he sat and stared in silent vigil, not even a lolling tongue to betray his intentions.

"We haven't much time then," Meera said. "We have to get to Bran before it's too late."

"How do you suppose we do that?" Jon asked. "It took all our luck to fight past the wights outside and find you in this maze of tunnels."

"The Children did not stop you?"

Jon looked confused. "Do you mean the myths, the Children of the Forest? They've been extinct for hundreds of years. No, you're the first person we have found, except Hodor and that injured boy he is carrying."

"Hodor." The giant nodded.

"You will find out very soon, Jon Snow of House Stark, that all the myths and stories of our childhoods are very, dangerously, real. Follow the wolf, Bran is in Summer, he will show us the way." She took a step forward, shaking her head as the world tilted and her vision began to dim. Another step and Meera stumbled, her hands grasping for air as she tried to stay upright and complete her mission, she had to get to Bran or it had all been for nothing.

"What do you mean my brother is in the wolf?" Jon caught Meera by her arms and held her fast. "Are you saying he's a skinchanger, a warg?"

This pause was too much, and Meera felt herself slipping, falling back into that delicious darkness of sleep. "Don't you know?" She asked Jon, caught in his arms and staring into those queer purple eyes that were so strange and so familiar to her all at once.

"Don't you know what you are?"

The shock of those words ran through Jon's body like a bolt of lightning, and Meera could see it echo into his eyes. She kept that vision with her as she slipped into darkness.

**-Jon-**

_Don't you know what you are?_ The slim girl's words rang in his ears. "What did she mean by that?" He asked aloud, staring at the unconscious form slumped in his hands.

"You know what she meant," Melisandre told him, "you've always known, you were just never taught to control it."

"Then I am a warg," Jon said, bitterly, "and the Starks are nothing but monsters. The rumors about my brother at the Frey wedding were true."

"What have we been facing outside, Lord Snow, if not monsters? What has every person we have encountered on our way here become since the minions of the Other have risen to smother us in winter and darkness?"

Bran's wolf, Jon thought the girl had called him Summer, whined at a forked passageway they had not taken yet.

"The ignorant see my Children of the Shadow, they call them monsters and me a witch, but that does not make me evil. Your intent lives deep within your heart, no man can take that from you, whatever they may name you." She glanced towards the anxious wolf. "The girl is right, we must go now or there will be no one left to save from those that truly mean to end us."

"Fine, but one thing first, Hodor, come here." Jon said, and the huge stable boy approached, carrying a slight form in his arms. "Check his wounds, I think his cuts are worse than..." He realized the girl hadn't introduced herself. "Hers are."

He set the girl down gently, and with a little help from his dagger, ripped a few strips of cloth from one of his undershirts and tossed them towards Melisandre. She sighed and bound up the boy's wounds impatiently. He was mostly untouched, save for some wicked gashes on his arms and neck, wounds made by someone who knew how to eke the life from them.

"Is there anything else we can do?" Jon asked.

"Not here," Melisandre replied, cryptically, "Not without a fire."

"Then there is nothing else to be done." Jon said, grunting as he slung the unconscious girl onto one shoulder. She was fine boned and light, but Jon needed to move quickly and carrying someone in front of him would keep him from drawing his sword, and that was an error he never wanted to make. He walked towards the wolf, prancing impatiently in front of the arching maw that opened up into darkness.

"Lead the way, wolf," he said, before outraged yellow eyes made him think again. "Go on, brother." He corrected himself, still not quite believing the words.

The direwolf vanished down the corridor, and Jon had to sprint to keep up. "C'mon, Hodor!" He called back over his shoulder.

"Hodor." Came the response, but it was paired with quickly placed, lumbering footsteps that crashed and echoed behind him.

"At least we will draw the attention away from your brother," Melisandre said, wincing every time Hodor loudly stumbled or kicked a rock down the pathway.

"If there is anyone here to find us." Jon said. "The people she was running from have been dead and gone for almost a score of generations."

Melisandre shook her head, her face half shadowed in darkness and lit by the stone at her throat. "There is magic left in this world, Lord Snow," she said, "dragons fly, the minions of the Other rise and multiply, and each day my powers grow beyond anything I could imagine. Who is to say they have not been hiding here, buried beneath snow and housed in darkness, while Man, frozen by cold and ignorance, lives and dies above?"

"You think she's right?" Jon asked.

"The creatures outside could not follow us into the tunnels, and no animals carve dens and homes within. Knowing that, along with your brother's direwolf leading us here, displays a grasp on power you know nothing about. It means that someone is maintaining these tunnels, someone rife with talents lost to those living on the surface."

"If it is actually the Children of legend," Jon said, "then I can ask them about the weaknesses of our enemies." He thought for a moment, "Other than fire, dragonglass and Valyrian steel, that is."

"Those are all embodiments of fire," Melisandre pointed out absently, pushing an errant root out of her way as it dangled from the low ceiling, the earthen filigree attempting to caress her face. "The more pressing question is, how do we know our hosts are not also our enemy?" She asked.

"What do you mean?" Jon looked over his free shoulder, shrugging briefly to settle the girl more comfortably across his back.

Melisandre waved a hand through the air, indicating his unconscious burden. "If your carefree passenger is to be believed, we are in as much danger here as we were out in the snow or fleeing through Nightfort, only there, we knew, at least vaguely, what we were up against." She squinted against their dim surroundings. "Here we are quite literally in the dark."

"Good point," Jon said, swallowing hard as he started to look around more carefully, at any moment expecting danger to burst through the packed earth that surrounded them on all sides. "Perhaps we should go faster, and follow from a much closer distance..." He said, picking up speed.

"I agree," said Melisandre, hiking up her hemline and moving forward at a much less dignified pace, "so long as we do not abandon your...friend?" She asked, waiting for the proper term to arise.

"Hodor." A confirmation sounded behind them.

"Hodor will be fine, he can barely feel that boy." Jon told her. "We grew up with him, he was friend, servant and stableboy to the Starks and Winterfell."

Ahead of them, the direwolf let out a deep and menacing growl. Jon saw his large, pointed fangs glint with the light given off by Longclaw. The wolf bristled, the silvery hair along his back and ruff standing on end.

Jon stopped immediately, his breathing slowed as he forced his other senses to heighten into battle readiness. He tasted the air, finding a hint of pitch from a torch and the rich tang of blood mingling with the ever present scent of clay and soil.

"Perhaps you should set down your burden." Melisandre suggested quietly, and Jon knew she meant the girl.

"Not just yet," he murmured back, "not if we have to run." He aligned himself into a fighting stance, ready for whatever chose to reveal itself.

The wolf was not one to wait, before Jon had a chance to react or even shout a command to stop, he was off into the darkness like a loosed arrow.

A terrible screech echoed around them, followed by a snarl and the sound of tearing flesh.

Jon wasted no time. "Perhaps you were right." He said to Melisandre, crouching low and shrugging the unconscious girl gently to the floor. "Hodor!" Jon called behind him. "Watch over her."

"Hodor." He replied.

Jon charged after the direwolf, blazing sword in hand. A flickering amber lit the hallways as he heard the soft tread of the red woman keeping pace just behind him. He saw movement up ahead and sprinted the remaining length down the corridor, seeing the direwolf fighting with something small, almost child sized.

"Bran! Stop!" He screamed at the wolf, forgetting the name the girl had used and refusing to shout, 'Stop, wolf' to a pony sized animal set on devouring what appeared to be a child.

The direwolf stopped his shaking, but his ruff remained extended, and his jaws held tight to his prey as he let out another growl. The child squirmed, trying to free itself from the wolf's ironclad hold. It whimpered, cringing away from the light of Longclaw as Jon approached.

The light revealed that this was no child of man. Finer boned still than the girl and the boy they had found in the tunnels, its skin was dappled, like light falling through the broken shade of trees. The creature looked up at him, and Jon saw large golden eyes bisected by a vertical pupil, like that of a cat. The thing cowered and tried to pull away, but its arm was caught fast by the direwolf. Jon looked at the limb, it was bleeding sluggishly, with a fluid that looked more like the sap that oozed from cut weirwood trees than blood. The end of its arm, trapped on the other side of the wolf's large fangs, was a small, three fingered hand with sharp, pointed nails.

"Are you one of the Children of the Forest?" He asked it softly.

"Siiiinngerssss." It rasped, speaking a less than perfect Westerosi.

"At least it understood you." Melisandre commented, examining the being for herself. Before she got close enough to touch it, the wolf turned and ran down the hall, dragging the strange creature along with him.

Jon swore, racing to catch up. He sprinted and turned down twists and forks, only barely remembering the paths he took as he tried his best to follow the silver banner of the direwolf's tail as it vanished into the darkness.

There was a sudden stab of pain in his side, reminding him that his physical condition since the stabbing was paltry compared to what it once was. His strength was flagging and he knew it, he couldn't keep the chase up for much longer.

Jon growled, throwing the last of his reserves into the run, lengthening his strides to give him just enough speed to lay his hands on either the wolf or the creature. He found himself closing the gap between them, he was almost there.

The direwolf stopped abruptly, and Jon lost his footing amongst a mess of paws and fine boned legs. He tumbled, trying his best to not lose Longclaw in the process or cut off a limb.

"Oof." He gasped, his breath burning in his chest.

"We need to work on your stamina, if you are going to be fighting off entire hordes of the Other..."

Jon looked up, wincing, the Lady Melisandre stood above him, not sweaty or winded in the least. Behind her was Ghost, who, to Jon's relief was panting, his tongue lolling out as he waited for a command. Jon braced himself up on one elbow, driving the tip of his sword into the soft ground as he readied himself to stand. The light thrown by Longclaw revealed a small bundle tucked against the wall of the passage. Bran's direwolf growled again, and Jon noticed the thing in his jaws trying to reach for the bundle beside him, every time the small being struggled to break free, the wolf tightened its hold and it cried out in pain.

"Stop." Jon told the creature. "Just stop struggling."

Round golden eyes looked back at him, slitted pupils narrowing. "Seeeeer." It breathed.

Jon examined the ball of furs next to him, pulling back layer after layer, trying to reveal its hidden contents by the light of both his and Melisandre's enchantments. The furs closest to the center were soaked stiff with blood, and Jon almost lost heart, afraid of what he might find inside. He forced himself to muster on, and uncovered a familiar looking mop of hair that made his heart stop.

"Bran!" He whispered hoarsely, tearing off the pile of hides in a surge of anger. Jon cradled his brother, terribly frightened by his absolute and utter stillness, and the glazed, unseeing look of his eyes. "Bran, no, you've got to wake up." Jon urged, shaking him, willing him to move. He was far too pale, and a nasty gash ran across his neck, though it was not bleeding freely, having been packed with what looked like moss.

"Bran!" Jon tried again. "You can't be gone, I've only just found you." He rocked the frail boy in his arms. "I've already grieved for you twice." He whispered, his voice catching. "Please don't make me do it again."

Bran's eyelids slid shut, and he let out a small moan. Bran's wolf went wild, trying in earnest to kill the creature they had found in the tunnels.

"Ghost!" Jon ordered turning quickly to look at the white wolf. "Stop him." Ghost moved in a milky blur, all teeth and red eyes as he bristled at his brother, who settled, but kept his prize clenched tightly between his jaws.

"Jon?"

A small voice, cracked and hoarse from lack of use, sounded in his lap. Jon looked down and breathed a sigh of relief, familiar wintry Stark eyes stared back at him.

"You're not here..." Bran said, furrowing his brow. "I'm still in the tree, this is all a memory." He turned and tried to pull away.

Jon's eyes widened as he realized the face in the heart tree was Bran's, which meant the message to go east...

"It's not." Jon assured him, grabbing his brother's hand and placing it on his face, smiling when Bran's small hand tickled the stubble that had grown in to replace his beard after the pyre. "I got your message, we found the passage through Nightfort."

"I knew you would. Did you bring an army?" Bran asked, looking up at his half brother. "Your eyes..." He noticed.

"They're different since the Watch..." Jon trailed off, unwilling to tell that story again, in the here and now, when they had neither the time to spare nor he the desire to live through it once more. "There is no army," he admitted, "I've only brought myself and-"

"And the Lady Melisandre," she continued, "servant of the one true God."

"There are no gods." Bran said bitterly. "There are only men, shades of men made immortal by living off the blood of those gifted enough to see their messages and think them as portents of the future, not as the traps they are."

"Those are not gods." Melisandre said, simply. "Those are men who abuse power."

"Then show me a 'god' that's different." Bran argued, attempting to sit.

Jon had to act quickly, this was going to flare up into a full scale fight between a zealot and a disillusioned atheist, and they hadn't the time for that.

"Quiet, the both of you." He ordered, "We've got to get help." Jon turned to his brother. "Bran, who taught you to see through the weirwoods, can they help us, can they heal you?"

Bran shook his head. "Bloodraven is the reason I'm like this to begin with, he wouldn't let Meera-" Bran's eyes widened in startlement, "where is she?"

"That girl we found?" Jon asked. "Curly hair and slight?"

"You found her?" Bran asked. "Is she...?" He looked afraid to continue.

"She's still with us, if that's what you were worried about." Jon assured him, "In fact, she should be a few-"

"Hodor!" A voice called from the darkness. Everyone turned and saw the big stableboy emerge out of the gloom. Jon saw two slight bodies resting on his broad shoulders.

"Or she could be right here, with Hodor." Jon corrected himself. "How are you faring?" He asked Bran. "We need to move."

The creature caught by Bran's wolf howled in pain and anger, the sound echoing and reverberating off the walls.

"Good enough to leave here." Bran told him. "How are we...?" He trailed off, and Jon saw him looking at Hodor.

"It's no problem." Jon said, as a sense of urgency pressed into him. He quickly seated Longclaw in the tattered remnants of what must have been his dozenth sheath on this journey. "Just tell us where to go."

"East." Bran said, decisively, "We're going to rescue Hardhome, but we have to hurry."

"Why?" Jon asked, stooping to pick his half brother up and seat him across his shoulders.

"Because the Children of the Forest will be coming soon." Bran told him, before his eyes glazed over and slid back into his skull. "Follow Summer." Were his last whispered words, before slumping back into unconsciousness.

 _The Children of the Forest? Summer?_ "But it's Winter." Jon said, confused.

Suddenly Bran's wolf let go of the creature and charged down a passageway Jon had yet to travel down. The thing, suddenly freed, bolted and screamed as it ran down the halls. Jon felt a low rumble through the close packed earth that surrounded them, as if hundreds of bodies had mobilized at once.

"Hodor." Said Hodor, dutifully following the wolf down the twisting tunnels with the slightly built boy and girl cradled in his arms.

Jon saw the glow of Melisandre's collar pass by him at eye level. "I tend not to argue with those that possess more information than I do," she explained, "and the flames have shown me hard times near a wintry sea."

"Then let's not keep Tormund waiting," He said, steadying Bran before rising to meet their fate. They would find the Wildlings and the Watch, or they would find the Others.

"I can't wait to hear his latest insults." Jon said wryly, before following Melisandre into the darkness.


	15. Ch 14 - Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: What's this? you ask, Another post? I'm on vacation and figured out the copy/paste cues that will make android and AO3 work together...and also I got inspired.
> 
> If you haven't read it yet, and you'd like more stellar writing in this genre, check out Allegiance by starkyd7. This story has magically appeared over the last month and I'm really quite glad that it did, I was starting to think I was the only one interested in this pairing without having it be a one shot or devolve into kink instead of plot.
> 
> Aaand it's also a future fic, whereas I guess I am a near future fic, so you get a different sense of timeline as well, which I very much enjoyed, 
> 
> This is a shortish chapter, but I am trying to get everything lined up so that I can just write like gangbusters when the action sets in and not have to move armies and characters all over creation, and perhaps even fit in a bit of romance somewhere, since you have been with me for 14 chapters and a prologue and I have still kept my lemons hidden away.
> 
> Thank you for reading, thank you for reviewing, and thank you most for sticking around through my incredibly slow posting.

**Tyrion**

_Sometimes it was good to have a blank note from the Iron Bank in your back pocket_ , Tyrion mused. After subduing the green dragon Rhaegal and taming the large black Drogon with means that Tyrion had difficulty understanding or believing, the city of Volantis was more than happy to sell off most of their fleet to them if it meant that they could maintain their slaveholding status and not burn. Selling Daenerys on this point had been a difficult one though, he was glad the Braavosi emissary had been on his side.

"These men with tattoos are not free." She observed, after leading her dragon back from a skirmish with what had apparently been a prince of the Ironborn.

They were a breed that didn't kill easily, and Tyrion's respect for Cressio's fighting ability had risen a notch after seeing the numerous punctures marring the tanned skin of what appeared to be a Greyjoy.

"No, your Grace, they are not. But if we stop to break every chain in all of Essos, where slavery was your ancestors' birthright, then you will be an old woman ten Summers from now when you cross the Narrow Sea." Tyrion said, hoping they could avoid another siege like Mereen.

"I am afraid I will have to agree with him, my queen." Cressio had seconded. "Traveling across water is treacherous enough this close to Winter, every moment we delay could mean a ship lost to a storm or moored on a rocky shoreline."

Tyrion smiled at that, it had been far too long since he had worked with a true banker, and their measure of costs and benefits were second to none. _And this one even agrees with me._ Things had truly been looking up for the dwarf after Jorah Mormont had taken it into his head to kidnap him. His smile faded as he remembered that Jorah was another loose end that might need to be dealt with before starting their journey west.

 The trio, with their dragon escort, approached the docks that housed the portion of the Volantene navy that Cressio and the Bank had just purchased. They couldn't help but notice that many of the ships had left port, and possibly quite some time ago.

 "Where are the rest of them?" Daenerys asked. Tyrion had no idea, but he saw the Braavosi wince.

 "Slaver's Bay, my queen." Cressio informed her quietly. "They have left to wage war on Mereen and reinstate the slave trade."

Targaryen purple embers drilled into them and it was all Tyrion could do to keep her from striking the young man. "Your Grace!" He said, slightly louder than he intended to. "You cannot-" Sparks of rage told him he was treading on dangerous ground with advice this plain. He began again. "If you fight all of the freedmen's battles for them, they will never learn to stand on their own, to govern themselves and become strong enough to turn back the Yunkai and the Volantenes and whoever else wishes to clap them into irons, brand their skin and lock a collar on their necks. What do they call you?" He asked her, hoping to distract her from her need for retribution.

"Mhysa." She said, her rage dimming perceptibly. "They call me Mother."

 "Precisely," Tyrion said, "and all men must learn to make their own way in the world once they leave their mother's protection, the slaves you freed are no different."

 Daenerys didn't answer, but walked ahead of them, towards the largest of the Volantene warships. The dark shape of Drogon stalked behind her and Tyrion wondered if they had just narrowly escaped more than a slap and a tongue lashing. The blood of the dragon now had real, living dragons to do her bidding, and the world was not ready for that.

 Next to him, Cressio took a deep breath and absently fiddled with something in his hand. It was a missive, the size and shape of those sent by raven, but Tyrion had trouble distinguishing the remnants of the seal. As far as he could tell, it was a red blob of blank, flattened wax. Tyrion had seen enough repayment missives from the Iron Bank during his brief stint at Hand to know their seal was pressed into black wax.

 "What's that?" He asked, pointing at the banker's hand.

 Cressio looked at the hand as if he were seeing for the first time.

 "It's nothing," he said, hurriedly shoving it into one of the numerous pouches he kept on his belt, "just further instructions to stay with the Queen, and that the Iron Bank will continue to back her during her travels to seat the Iron Throne."

 A lie, but one so expertly told that, had Tyrion not seen the seal, he would have believed it without a second thought. His eyes narrowed, who was this man, this stranger that came with official Iron Bank notes but swore personal fealty to the Queen of the Andals?

 He would need to find out, and soon, before the Braavo and Daenerys got any closer.

 If he even was Braavosi...

 "Let's see what your pretty notes have bought us." He said, and pumped his short legs harder so that he could catch up to Daenerys.

 She was standing in front of the largest of the Volantene warships. It was a beast of a thing called Honorro, which, if Tyrion recalled correctly, was the name of the most famous of the Tiger triarchs. It was huge, easily three or four times longer than her dragon, and seemed a fitting flagship for her fleet.

 If he had to choose, he would have picked this one. Stung by her last reaction, he said nothing, even if it would have been praise for a shrewd choice, and instead waited for her to speak.

 "They tell me there are enough ships to take five thousand men with me." She said. "The Unsullied alone number more than seven thousand, and then there are the freed men, and my _khalasaar_. The army is twice that amount, and now I must leave half behind," Daenerys looked to Tyrion, "but which half? They call me mother, and a mother I am, but how am I to choose favorites, only to abandon the rest to death and enslavement?"

 Tyrion was cautious, knowing his first reaction was to leave everyone that couldn't fight and just take five thousand Unsullied with them, well, four thousand, nine hundred and ninety six Unsullied. They needed a Queen, a bank roll, a shrewd politician and schemer, himself, and he also included Missendei for the various feminine day to day duties that both he and Cressio seemed incapable of providing. The girl was also a keen translator, and seemed to speak every language there was, she had even picked up Dothraki in a matter of months.

 Then there was Selmy, what better way to introduce a foreign queen to western soil than to have Ser Barristan the Bold as her personal Queensguard? Old as he was, and with Jaime short a sword hand, he was probably better than any one swordsman in all of Westeros right now. Especially after that fiasco that befell the Red Viper and the Mountain. So perhaps that made five of them.

 That still left three thousand and five Unsullied behind, along with unnumbered masses of freed slaves, and what to do with them? He pondered this, scratching his scarred nub of a nose as he did. He was certain that it was a most grotesque display, but it helped him think, so he did it anyway.

 "Ask them." He said finally.

 "Ask them what?" 

"Ask them if they want to risk almost certain death travelling the Narrow Seas to seat you on a throne in a continent they know nothing about, with people who want either to kill them or to send them back. If they are truly free, then it should be their own decision."

She nodded, seemingly accepting his solution, but concern still lined her features.

 "The Unsullied will do whatever it is I command of them, they are soldiers through and through, but I fear too much has been taken from them to simply command them to live peacefully."

"Then let them rule themselves," Tyrion suggested, "choose one who you think understands the needs of both freedmen and Unsullied and choose them to lead. Grey Worm comes to mind as the obvious choice."

Dany shook her head. "I need him with me in Westeros." She paused for a moment, thoughtful. "Perhaps there is another that would be suitable for the task."

Daenerys took a breath to whistle for her silver, but a loud argument interrupted her. Cressio and the dockmaster were speaking in heated Valyrian, the banker kept pointing to the ships and at his sheaf of notes and shaking his head in disbelief. The dockmaster stepped forward and continued to yell. He pinned an accusatory finger to Cressio's chest and tapped him angrily. Tyrion felt that this was a rather large mistake, as entering the Braavo's personal space uninvited whilst jabbing a finger into him meant you were dangerously close to losing said finger, along with any other appendages you might value.

He turned, about to suggest that perhaps someone fluent in Valyrian should intervene, but Daenerys was already mere steps from where the two men were fighting, with Drogon right behind her. She spoke some words, Tyrion thought that it was perhaps a question, but she wore her mantle of command when she did it, and he saw the dockmaster's eyes become huge and round as his pointed finger became limp and the anger he had fixed upon Cressio vanished like spilt water in the eastern sun.

 _For he is facing the Eastern Sun._ Tyrion thought to himself, amused as he waited for her to finish.

Ignoring the now grovelling and ingratiating dockmaster, Daenerys used similar words to address Cressio. Tyrion studied the manner of their delivery, which was markedly different from when she had first spoken. Cressio smirked in response, answering her in languid tones with an easy cadence.

 _Flirting_. He sighed, but he had to give him respect for flirting with the most powerful woman in the world while her dragon sat just behind her left shoulder. Now both of them were grinning like adolescents and the dockmaster was so scared that he was ready to curl up on the ground into a puddle of his own urine. He handed a stack of bank notes back to Cressio and grabbed his hand to shake it and seal whatever bargain they were now making before the dragon queen changed her mind and had him roasted on a spit. _Or just roasted, her children have no patience for skewering._ The dockmaster slunk away, finding refuge in the shacks that lined the harbor and Tyrion looked back, catching Cressio and Daenerys as they approached him. They were all smiles, with an easy silence lingering between them.

"So I wager that all our supplies now cost next to nothing, instead of the former Queen's ransom that they were?" Tyrion asked.

"You wager correctly," Cressio said, tossing him a coin. It was only a Volantene Honor, but Tyrion enjoyed the gesture anyway. Regardless of his misgivings after seeing that unknown seal, he had to love a man who paid his debts.

They came to the edge of the pier and Tyrion skip hopped over the jagged edge where warped wood met aged cobblestones, a border that marked the beginning of the city proper. Dany's _kos_ were there, keeping tight control over their mounts, who angrily stamped at the rough cobbles. These were beasts used to running over open grasslands and sandy dunes. The stones and sounds of the city put a nervous edge on horse and Dothraki alike.

 _If the city walls make them this anxious, I hope I never see what happens to them in the hold of a ship_. Cavalry would be nice to have, but getting the screamers to Westeros was a next to impossible task. Come to think of it, hatching living dragons from ancient stone eggs had also been impossible, so perhaps he was in the right army after all.

He noticed the curly shrubbery of Missendei's hair peek out from behind Ko Fonno, the leader of Daenerys' bloodguard and her trusted captain and advisor when it came to Dothraki matters.

"Missendei." Daenerys called, and what came after was a jumble of Valyrian that made the girl look crestfallen. The one word Tyrion could pick out had been 'Marselen.' If he remembered correctly, Marselen was the name of one of the Unsullied captains. Perhaps this was the alternative Dany had suggested earlier, but why would it affect the girl so severely?

This time Daenerys did whistle for her Silver, and she was galloping off with her Dothraki before Tyrion even realized she had mounted the thing.

While the dust around them settled, Tyrion looked to Cressio. "Did you happen to catch any of that, oh clever banker?"

"I did." He nodded. "She's assembling the army, but first she wants to speak with Captain Marselen in her quarters, after that, she will address the army."

Tyrion's stomach did a small flip. It was actually happening, she would decide who would stay and who would go, and then they would cross the sea and make history.

Tywin Lannister had spent a fortune and extinguished countless lives in an attempt to exile the Targaryens from Westeros and end their bloodline, but now his abhorrent, loathed, mistake of a son was going to bring her back to rule over them all.

  
He couldn't help but laugh at the irony of it.


	16. Ch 15 - Dany I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one is pretty short, since it is part of a longer chapter (long like 8,000 words if my plan pans out) from Dany's POV, but I figured I needed to update everyone. 
> 
> I've been really sick with, headaches, fevers and nausea for the last 10 days. The doctors finally did some blood panels and my liver enzymes are about 40x higher than they should be, luckily I tested negative for viral hepatitis, but I could have autoimmune issues still, so wish me luck that it goes away soon and I can get back to writing, because it's about to get good.

Daenerys

In the end, Marselen had taken her up on the honor of leading the remaining land bound Unsullied and freed men back to take Meereen. One element bothered her to distraction during the course of her entire meeting, it was the roiling emotion coming from her usually impassive handmaid and translator, Missandei. Marselen was her only remaining brother, and to send him out, away from her, meant that young Naathi had to make a decision: Stay with her brother, in a war she could not partake in, or stay with her queen where her gift for tongues and unusual but insightful counsel were desperately needed.

Daenerys had given the girl leave to walk beside her brother and meet with his strategos, telling her not to rush the decision and to follow her heart, a luxury Daenerys wished for herself more often than not when faced with the brutal choices brought by war and politics. The strategos had been a strange boon, he was one of the Windblown, a lesser lieutenant but with a keen eye for siege, formation, and military tactics.

He was a former pit fighter, named Braedazma for the short but deadly leaf tipped spear he kept strapped across his back, his people had not yet smelted steel when the raiders came and took him captive as a young man, but he was the son of a weapon smith and cut his milk teeth on battle stories before fighting in border skirmishes with the neighboring tribes. Braed had won his freedom in the arena, and became a sellsword soon after, so the possibility of unshackling all the slaves in Essos was something he could not pass up. Daenerys had tested him, and found his tactics to be surprising and unconventional. If both she and Ser Barristan could not lead the attack on the Volantenes headed for Meereen, Braed's guerilla tactics would be the next best thing.

She hoped she would see Missandei when the time came for the ships to set sail.

Daenerys had already said her goodbyes to Ko Fonno. Most Dothraki were set in their ways, and had no desire to board the fearsome wooden horses that rode upon the poisoned water. He would lead them back to the Great Grass Sea. Those that dared to break superstition numbered in five hundred, including all seven remaining members of her _kos_. The screamers came with horses, so that almost tripled the number of them. The Unsullied she took numbered in three thousand, keeping the battalions in full complements.

The remaining numbers were made up of Daenerys and her counselors, along with the crew needed to sail the ships. There were a few hundred noncombatants as well, including the freedmen who made their keep through foraging, cooking and hunting. It was these skills that fed the giant stomach on legs that made up the Targaryen army. Cressio had also bought out the contracts of a hundred minor members of the Windblown to act as grooms, smiths, armorers, fletchers and anything else a war camp needed.

Would this be enough to take the Seven Kingdoms? No, but it was a starting show of force that, if paired with dragons, would lead her to many a new ally, and with those marching at her side, she could win back her birthright.

The ships had been loaded and crewed, and, thanks to her and Cressio's joint efforts against the dock master, the food and water costs had been minimal. It was one thing to have an emissary willing to back you with unlimited fortune, but one day that money must be repaid, somehow and by someone, so it was best to save when you could.

_"Is there a problem?" She had asked the dock master, red faced and blustering as he stabbed a finger at the banker. Behind her, Drogon had snorted, catching the man's attention. He spared a quick look to the new addition, and Dany watched him process what he saw before him, enjoying his stark white skin and wide rimmed eyes as he took in the fabled Dragon Queen and the largest of her children. He had broken and started groveling then, speaking his words so quickly that they became meaningless gibberish, but still probably meant that he would charge them less._

_She turned her attention to Cressio, whose look was, if not playful, the promise of playfulness. It was an invitation to know more and she found herself intrigued by that proposition._

_"Is there a problem?" She asked the Braavosi._

_"None, my queen," he answered, barely containing a smirk, "you have cleared the field of all comers. The only problem I could imagine would require a situation wherein I displease my mistress, and pleasing you is a task I take most seriously."_

_Though incredibly fluent in the common tongue of Westeros, there was a certain poetry Cressio used when he was speaking Valyrian. Though it would irk Tyrion to no end, she made a note to use it more. She felt a slight tugging at the corners of her mouth, and saw it mirrored by Cressio._ Perhaps I'll use it when Tyrion isn't around.

But that dwarf _had_ been around, ever since she had first set eyes on the _Honorro_ and helped Cressio use the dock master’s tactics against him, Tyrion had been two paces behind her every moment of every hour of every day. Her only respite had been sleeping and bathing. She had been sleeping in one of the nicer rooms within the best estate the city had to offer. The triarchs had loaned it to her on good faith, either that or abject fear, and it was currently her base of operations for the short window of time they had before setting sail and changing the course of the entire world.

This was her last night here, and she had decided to enjoy it, soaking in the gigantic marble monstrosity the Volantenes called a tub. She relaxed into the steaming water, hearing the door open just a crack before soft footfalls sounded on the slick tiles. Four Unsullied and as many members of her _kos_ guarded the door each day and night, and there had been no sound of a commotion, so she simply kept her eyes closed and waited. There was a soft rustle of cloth, and then strong, practiced fingers dug through the short hair that covered her scalp and started to soap and massage all her tension away. Her heart was glad.

"How can you inspire millions in Westeros when your hair is not as lustrous as that of the fabled Silver Queen, your grace?"

"As short as it is?" Daenerys laughed, deep and easy. Though the burned off stubble had started to grow back after that fateful day in the fighting pits when she first room flight, her hair was nowhere near its former glory. It was perhaps the length of a finger at its longest.

This purging of her silver locks had only happened once before, when she had birthed her children from a funeral pyre. The short style was unconventional, especially in regards to Dothraki traditions, but she found it, as well as the fiery baptisms that caused it, incredibly freeing.

"I was hoping that my other titles would make up for it, I do still have dragons and a small _khalasaar_."

Small feet dipped into the water on either side of her. "Aye!" There was a hissed intake of breath. "Always too hot."

"Always." Dany agreed. "Now what is wrong with being Mother of Dragons or _Khaleesi_ of the Great Grass Sea?" Missandei's hands sank lower, working out the knots and tension that always dug like knives into her neck and shoulders. Dany let out of small groan of pleasure, she didn't have to pretend to be anything, not here, not with Missandei.

The little girl sold by the Yunkai was now dancing upon the line that separated her from womanhood, and she knew it was just a matter of time before some dashing young man or another swept into her life and asked her to share his. Dany would make sure he was a worthy one, she owed the girl at least that much. She kept her hope fixed that fate would favor her and leave that romance until sometime after she sat the Iron Throne of her father.

"They are titles that strike fear into the hearts of your enemy, your grace, but they do not inspire. The Silver Queen inspires, but not dragons or Dothraki."

Dany dipped below the surface of the water, feeling at peace with the heat. She resurfaced, quizzing the Naathi as she wrung the water from her newly rinsed hair. "Why not the Breaker of Chains, then?" She asked, already knowing the answer.

"Because it would mean nothing to them." Missandei answered, before asking a question of her own. "Is it true, your grace, do only free men and women walk in Westeros?"

"It is." Dany said. "Ser Jorah's crime was attempting to sell poachers into servitude, that is why he was exiled."

"He is a very strange man." Missandei said. "First he spies on you, then he professes to love you, and then he risks his life capturing Meereen to free the slaves, when he would not be here at all if he hadn't put men in chains."

"Very strange," Dany sighed, "and now he has returned and gifted me with an advisor that knows everything about ruling Westeros as well as my dragons, when I told him I would have his head if I ever saw him again."

"Will you?" Missandei asked. Dany looked up from her handmaid's ministrations, she could see that it was a question of simple curiosity, rather than a judgement.

"No." She said simply. "I will leave him pining on the shore as we drift out to sea tomorrow. If he wishes to bankrupt himself further and follow me to Westeros, where he will forfeit his life as a bountied fugitive, then that is a choice he must make, I will not make it for him."

Missandei nodded, giving neither praise nor disapproval, she rose, as she always did when they practiced this ritual, and Dany knew she would return with a towel. It was generally the softest one she could find and always hot, so hot it felt as if she had kept it nestled in the coals of the hearth. Dany had yet to figure out how she performed this feat without setting the cloth afire.

"How was your meeting with Braedazma?" Dany asked, as she rose from the water to accept the proffered towel.

"It went well." She said. "Marselen and Braed got along very well, by the time we left, they were already proposing strategies to use against the Volantenes."

"What did you think of the strategies?"

"They were clever, your grace, clever and..." she searched for a word, "unconventional."

"But you feel they will be successful?" Dany probed.

"Absolutely, your grace, Marselen and the Unsullied are soldiers unmatched by anyone."

"Do you feel you will be successful, here with me, away from your brother?"

The question caught her off guard and a single tear slipped down her cheek before she hurriedly wiped it away with the back of her hand. 

"Of course, your grace." She sniffled once and the sadness was caged again, behind that thin veneer. "That is what Marselen made me promise, as a condition of leaving him, that I would help you rule in any and every way that I could."

 Dany saw the fragile girl putting on a brave face and acted. She pulled the girl to her, enveloping Missandei in a towel clad embrace until she felt the facade crack and the real, grieving sobs break through as they wracked the girl's body. Dany held her like that for a while, humming snippets of soothing melody as she stroked her back. Eventually her strained breathing subsided and Missandei was back to herself again.

"Rest now," Dany told her gently, leading Missandei towards her cot. "We have a busy day tomorrow," she looked out the window at her waiting ships, hardening her gaze, "and every tomorrow after that."

oooooooooo

Let me know if you would prefer an extension to this chapter, or some additional Dany POV chapters posted instead (IE, Dany Pt I, II, and III), I know everyone likes longer chapters, but it was just taking me forever to get this one going and I wanted to give you guys something.


	17. Ch 16 - Dany II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: No fever this morning, yaaaaay! (must be the starkyd7 updates ;) and to celebrate, here’s a chapter, a spicy chapter :D Seeing specialists tomorrow and Tuesday, wish me luck.

**Dany II**

 

Tyrion was waiting for her the next morning, she saw him the moment she set foot outside her chambers. He looked freshly bathed, but still reeked of a Volantene approximation of perfume. Dany wrinkled her nose, it didn’t suit him in the least, and from the way Tyrion shrunk in on himself, he knew it as well.

"Did you stay too long in the wrong brothel, Lord Nursemaid?" She asked him. Dany had done her best to keep from being a petulant child about Tyrion's minding, but his inescapable presence had become too much to bear.

"Possibly," he told her, gaining confidence as he fell into a familiar rhythm of verbal fencing. "I've been doing a study as of late, you see, I'm trying to deduce where it is that whores go."

"Besides other brothels, you mean?" Dany asked, reluctantly humoring him.

"Yes," he said, "but where do they go after that? I have yet to find the answer."

"Why such an interest in the affairs of retired brothel folk, Lord Tyrion, did you lose one?"

She had meant it as a joke, but a deadly serious Tyrion looked as if he was deciding whether or not to answer.

"What was her name?" Dany asked him, her impatience with him softening into concern.

"It doesn't matter," he answered sadly, "it was a lifetime and a world ago. I doubt she would even deign to see me again, knowing me could not have been a high point in her life."

This was not the Tyrion Dany was familiar with, usually he was shrewdly capitalizing upon the weaknesses of everyone in the room. Unless they were particularly unflappable, then he would drink or jape with them until he could pursue his original course of action.

Dany made a mental note to ask Tyrion that question again, at a future date, in more comfortable settings, after several flagons of wine, and maybe a glass for herself. She cleared her throat, "Drogon is doing well with the maneuvers you suggested."

"So he has." Tyrion noted, gracefully accepting the change in subject. "Which of the techniques have you mastered so far?"

"Shorter, wider bursts of dragonfire," Dany told him, "Sometimes silently, but consistently by voice, and we've managed to move a filled supply box from one end of Volantis to the other. How has your work with Rhaegal been?"

"As of now?" Tyrion said. "Let's just say he has a mind of his own. He is not as fierce as the rumors from those in Meereen would imply, but neither is he docile and complacent as he was when that Ironborn arrived."

"He still shies from my touch." She sighed. "Has anyone else gotten close?"

Tyrion shook his head, "No closer than the last time I tried."

They both looked at Tyrion's right hand, bandaged as it was, and Dany knew he was also remembering that close encounter.

Rhaegal had looked so approachable, but try as she might, he would not behave the same way that Drogon had. Not even the Valyrian horn, Dragonbinder, had managed to do anything other than call Drogon to her. Tyrion, citing his extensive knowledge as expertise, had gotten the closest to Rhaegal of anyone in her army. That had been too close for her wily child, and the dragon had snapped at Tyrion so quickly it had been hard to even see that it had happened.

Then Rhaegal took flight and went hunting, leaving a bleeding Tyrion holding his ripped open hand and thanking everything that listened for all his fingers.

"You said 'one rider, one dragon' and I suppose you were right, I just wish his first hadn't been my enemy."

"And you told me that 'the dragon has three heads,' your grace, don't abandon hope just yet. There is knowledge and magic we have yet to discover."

"Where would this magic be, then?" Dany asked. "Asshai, or perhaps buried beneath the smoking ruins of my ancestors?"

Tyrion shrugged. "I cannot say. There must be someone who knows more than we do, and nothing seems to draw unknowns out of the woodwork like real, living dragons. We must wait, and watch, and be ready when the time comes."

"But the time has come and gone." She said, starting down the hallway, her eyes set on the docks. "If the east holds secrets, it can keep them. I'm done waiting on mysterious women in lacquered masks and living in fear of curses and prophecies that may or may not come to pass."

Dany waved her hand and Missandei, along with her retinue of guards and a group of men carrying her belongings, started to follow behind them.

"These people think they are so old and noble, as if the sun rose and fell at their behest."

"It does that, your grace," Tyrion's breathing was a bit labored as he tried to keep up with her furious pace, "rise, in the east. The sun, I mean."

_When the sun rises in the west, and sets in the east._

"Not after today." Dany said. "Today is the last day that the east sees the promise of daybreak, the promise of light and life."

_When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves._

She remembered the ghost grasses, their pale tendrils choking out the verdant Dothraki Sea as she wandered through the countryside. Essos had had its time with the Mother of Dragons, and all it had done was try to break her.

"I think it's time for a western dawn, Lord Tyrion, don't you think so?"

They finally approached the docks, and Dany could see Ser Barristan and Grey Worm situating the soldiers that were set to board the  _Honorro_ with her. Cressio was supervising the final supplies as they made their way up the gangplank. He waved as he caught sight of her and she found herself smiling in reflex as she waved back.

"Your grace, I almost forgot." Tyrion spoke up, and she broke eye contact with Cressio to look at the dwarf. "The armorer finished these for you this morning."

He handed over a set of sturdy leather half gloves, with rounded metal studs over the knuckles and at the heel of the palm.

"You said before that you were having trouble making Drogon feel the non verbal commands, I hope these will be of some assistance."

The non verbal commands Tyrion was referring to mostly consisted of Dany knocking on a particular pattern of scales with her knuckles and hoping that Drogon would feel it. Her success with that technique had been fairly low, and resulted in more than a few split knuckles over the last week as her fleet was readied.

Dany slid the supple yet sturdy leather on over her hands, they fit-like they were supposed to fit, and she wondered how Tyrion had gotten the sizing so exact.

"These came from the Windblown armorer?" She asked, and Tyrion nodded. "But they're perfect, how could he have known?"

"Let's just say you needn't look for your holiest pair of evening gloves anymore, thanks to Missandei."

"That explains the sizing," Dany said, "but every detail is exactly what we talked about, how did you explain that to him?"

"Oh. I made him a plan." Tyrion looked pleased. "It's a rarely used skill of mine."

"A skill honed where?" Dany asked, demanding to be convinced.

"Designing my own saddles, of course," Tyrion said, "you don't think this noble and sculpture worthy physique rides bareback, do you?" He sketched a flourishing bow.

Dany laughed quietly behind her leather clad hand. She spoke a few words to Missandei and the girl led her retinue onto the docks and up the gangplank, with instructions to find a cabin that would best suit her.

Though her  _kos_ had been furious about being separated from their  _khaleesi_ for the duration of their trip across the poisoned water, they accepted that it was necessary. The obstinant Rhaegal generally followed where Drogon went, and Drogon would be on the  _Honorro_ . Since her children were prone to snacking on the four legged members of her  _khalasaar_ , she thought it would be best if they were separated, which was why only Barristan and Grey Worm were accompanying them as captains.

The bustle of activity started to wind down, and Dany could not even find Cressio's slim form near the railings. Dany and Tyrion seemed to be the only people who had yet to board the  _Honorro_ .

"Shall we, your grace?" Tyrion asked her.

She smiled, accepting this moment for what it was, one of the great turning points in her life. "We shall, Lord Tyrion."

oooooooooo

Departing had been, bittersweet. The east had been her home for as long as she could remember, and though she had grown to hate parts of it, her most cherished memories lived there as well.

She had seen Jorah one last time, or at least, the tiny silhouette of what was Jorah. As the ship pulled out to sea, he had been standing at the tip of a rocky outcropping, sword flourished in a salute that she had seen often enough to know what man it belonged to. Dany hoped that would be their final goodbye, they were becoming more and more dangerous each time they met, and she doubted Jorah would survive another one.

Dany heard footsteps behind her, one much faster than the other, which was lighter. Tyrion had been at Cressio’s side every single moment they had been on the  _Honorro._

"The captain said that a storm is coming on the horizon," Tyrion informed her. "He does not think it too serious, but advises that we all stay out of sight and take cover below decks."

"That sounds like a splendid idea. We must also discuss the current state of your finances, my queen, it is most pressing." Cressio said, with a look that said nothing of the sort. "May I take your hand?" He asked, a palm outstretched in invitation.

_"What_ state of your finances, your grace?" Tyrion interrupted, trying to get her attention. "The fact that they are  _infinite_ ?"

Dany ignored him, pressing an imperious hand into the banker's waiting one. "Lead on, noble Cressio."

He did, stepping gracefully backwards as he propped the wooden door to Dany's cabin open without even looking. Cressio twirled her into the cabin, lithe as a dancer, before shutting the door and barring it behind them. She could hear Tyrion's muffled voice behind the thick wood, but didn't care to make out the words.

Dany turned to Cressio, the violet alive and burning in her eyes. "So tell me, my Iron Banker, what is the current state of my finances?"

Cressio still held her hand in his own. He raised it up to his face, kissing the palm before lightly biting along the sensitive skin that surrounded it. "It's the same as my devotion to you," he said softly, "unlimited."

Dany closed her eyes, savoring the sensation. "Might I ask you a question, my queen?"

"Anything." She murmured, and then the warm tingling sensations stopped. Dany opened her eyes and saw him start to thread her fingers through the lapels of his shirt.

"What comes next?" He asked, mimicking the situation her  _kos_ had interrupted after the fight.

For an answer, Dany became the aggressor, pinning the slight Braavosi to the wall and getting so close to his face that their breath intermingled.

"This." Dany said softly, and kissed him.

His lips were cool, as everyone's were when Dany kissed them, but Cressio seemed to run cooler than the rest. Dany found this invigorating, like getting caught in a sudden rain. He kissed back with fervor, and Dany took advantage of that, pulling just out of range until she could hear his growl of frustration.

_"My queen,_ " he gasped in Valyrian,  _"you torture your loyal servant so cruelly."_

_"I reward loyalty in good time."_ Dany promised.

Cressio accepted his false imprisonment. Dany kissed the corner of his mouth and began to leave a burning trail along his jawline, the Braavo's sword and dagger banged against the wall as Cressio bucked his hips in a gesture of futility. Eunuchs were certainly...different. His cheeks were smooth, and kissing him seemed more akin to the nights of obligatory passion spent with her handmaids than the rough experiences, both by action and texture, that she had shared with uncut men.

There was another difference as well, his kisses did not taste of duty.

Dany loosened her grip on his shirt, taking a moment to fumble with a button before finding a better idea. Her hand drifted down to his side.

Stubborn grey eyes looked back at her, Cressio's hand covered hers where Dany had grasped his weapon.

_"What did you swear upon?"_ Dany asked, kissing him as she waited with endless patience.

She finally looked up when his reciprocations flagged and found Cressio's stormy gaze still stonewalling her, but Dany had not become queen by surrendering. She changed tactics, calling upon a move that was frequently used to good effect against her. Dany sent up a hand to grip the short hairs at Cressio's nape before arching his neck and revealing the hairless expanse of his throat.

_"What did you swear upon?"_ She asked again, and bit at his pulse point, sucking gently until she felt his resilience start to melt.

_"You."_ He finally managed to choke out against her assault. _"I swore upon my belief in you."_

_"Please remember that."_ She told him, as she pushed his hand away, drawing the dagger from his side. Dany spent a moment admiring the fine craftsmanship of the blade before setting to work against her current enemy, the buttons running down the length of Cressio's chest.

There was a soft popping sound as the threads parted, and then a button dropped to the floor with a clatter. His shirt fell open and Dany could see dozens of thin white scars covering his chest. She realized that his prowess as a water dancer had come at a price that, though not very high by itself, must have been paid over and over again during his short lifetime.

Three more pops, each revealing a patch of crisscrossed skin that held countless stories. At the fourth she felt Cressio twitch beneath her hands in a way that didn't feel like pleasure. Dany looked up, concerned, and saw him looking back at her with an emotion she had never seen on him before.

It was fear.

Dany suddenly remembered the Astapori slave master's description of the Unsullied.  _"We cut them root and stem."_ Was it the same for Cressio?

"I should tell you-" He started to speak, his Valyrian swagger breaking into a Westerosi plea. Dany silenced him with a kiss and a gentle finger across his lips.

_"Whatever is, or is not there, is perfectly alright."_ She assured him.  _"One does not survive as long as I have without learning to improvise."_

She tucked the dagger away, snug in the woven horsehair belt she had chosen that day, before addressing the matter before her. Dany kissed the Braavo softly before proceeding, the kiss was dampened as a single tear slid down his cheek, but he reciprocated all the same, with a kiss that felt strangely like farewell.

Then Dany's fingers were fumbling at the laces of his pants and she was brushing up against the subtle ridges that mapped his stomach. Delving deeper still she encountered silken curls and a warm, welcoming wetness that was both entirely intoxicating and incredibly out of place.

Her mind stopped, trying to come to grips with this, but the one thought that rose to the fore had been:  _Lies!_

She reacted accordingly, and the blade was out and against Cressio's throat in an instant.

"You aren't Cressio, eunuch of the Iron Bank, who are you?" She demanded harshly.

_"I am no one, only your servant."_ He...or she...Dany wasn't sure anymore, said quietly, resigned to their fate.

She pressed in deeper on the blade, watching it cut ever so slightly into the throat she had marked with passion only moments ago.  _"All men must die,"_ Dany threatened,  _"women included if they lie to me."_

Her captive shrugged dispassionately.  _"All men must serve, they took everything else, they left me no one."_

_"You had a name!"_ Dany insisted.  _"Even the Unsullied had names!"_

_"I am no one."_

_"Speak your true name, or else this will be the messiest day of killing no one I have ever had!"_ Dany slammed her free hand into the wall next to the imposter's head, startling the both of them.

"I...I need my hands."

Dany felt her anger start to flame even further.

"It's no trick, but you won't believe it unless I show you."

Dany took precautions, her hand smarted from where she had hit the wall, but she used it to cover the pommel of the water dancer's saber. "Go ahead," she said finally, "but slowly."

Hands raised up before her and looped behind her captive's ears, as if they were about to remove a masque at a ball, instead, the chiseled features she had come to associate with Cressio sloughed off into the imposter's waiting hands, the face of her would be lover nothing more than a slack piece of finely cured leather. The hands dropped and Dany could see that the person before her was indeed a woman, a woman who was every bit as scarred as the rest of her body.

Dany was relieved to see that everything else had remained the same below the neck, as the stranger weighed about as much as she did, if perhaps a little less. If Dany continued to deny her blades, they might remain on equal footing in the close quarters of the cabin if it came to a fight. Dany didn't think it would come to that, though there was deception, she did not feel danger emanating from the woman before her.

Her face was angular, perhaps even androgynous, except the planes around her jaw were just feminine enough to give the game away. Along her cheekbones ran columns of thin white scars, one after the other, cut so many times that the bars almost looked solid. The stranger cleared her throat, and Dany had to back the dagger off ever so slightly in fear that she would accidentally nick something vital. When she spoke, the tones were just a touch higher than Cressio's, but they maintained the same rhythmic cadence she had become fond of.

"My name," she spoke hoarsely, as if she hadn't in years, "before they made me what I am, is Arya, Arya Stark of House Winterfell."

_Stark._ She knew the name well. Another betrayal from the Usurper's dogs, her temper flared, and this time it actually woke the dragon. Dany was done with deception, done with trusting and losing her heart and having it used against her. She was done, she was done and she was leaving.

_Three treasons you will know, once for blood and once for gold and once for love._

_Which one had this been?_ Dany took the dagger and drove it deep, a ragged scream emerging as she did so. She pushed forward until she couldn't wiggle it or pull back if she tried.

Satisfied with her work, she turned around, unbolted the door, and pulled it inwards. Tyrion's body toppled in after it.

"I'm leaving."

"Your grace is...going for a swim?" Tyrion asked, before looking behind her and seeing her victim pinned to the wall. "Ah." He said, understanding dawning. "Was he a Faceless Man after all?"

"You knew?" Her betrayals were all toppling down now, one after the other.

"I suspected." Tyrion told her. "Why do you think I am now Lord Nursemaid?"

Dany was furious, at Tyrion, at herself for not listening every time he had try to come between them, at Cressio, or Arya, or whoever that was back in her cabin. She stepped out into the open air, and was almost immediately soaked by rain. This reminded her of that first kiss with Cressio, and that angered the dragon even further. She called for the only escape left to her.

  
_"DROGONNNNNNN!"_ She yelled out into the storm, and the whoosh of displaced air let her know that her child had arrived, her one constant left in the world. _"Fly me, Drogon."_ She whispered as she kissed his ferocious scaly countenance, and he did.

 


	18. Ch 17 - Dany III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this chapter ended up freakishly long, please don't come to expect that of me in the future, but I found a new motivational tool, so I may surprise you with at least more frequent postings. Update on my health: I am at about 90% and steadily recovering, I did a whole week of work (construction on 12ft ladders in 90 degree buildings and high humidity) without passing out, so I think we're in the clear. Diagnosis was CMV on the tail of something that had been going around. I am SO glad to not be exhausted any longer. I could have let this chapter keep going, but then I would have deprived you of it for longer, and I figure there needed to be a POV switch soon, or I'd just keep writing from Dany's for the next 3-4k words...

**Dany III**

The last word she heard, before the storm enveloped her senses, was Tyrion's.

_"Traitor!"_ He had yelled across the decks, using what little Valyrian he knew. Dany saw a knot of Unsullied, led by Grey Worm, emerge from a hatch to head straight for her cabin. All she saw after that was the fog and the rain as Drogon spiraled up and away from the _Honorro._ Dany needed to get away, away from this person Arya, away from Tyrion's endless counsel, and far, far away from her responsibilities as queen.

The dragon bellowed as they cut through the top of the cloud layer, revealing an entire heaven's worth of stars. Dany took a breath of the cold, rarefied air, and for the first time in what felt like forever, felt the constant thrum of tension drain out of her. She shivered, despite the heat radiating from the scales beneath her, and regretted her rash decision to leave without a cloak.

Something rubbed her side uncomfortably and she realized that she had tucked the gloves Tyrion had made for her into her belt without thinking. Dany was glad for the thick leather as she watched her hands stop trembling.

She wasn't sure what madness seized her, but she found herself soaring high above the coast to her future home. Toy castles flickered in and out of sight beneath her, and Tyrion's lessons echoed inside of her head.

Storm's End, a wall as deep as it was tall. Dany noticed torches dotting the ground. It looked as though a great number of men were out marching, but to where, and who led them?

The Red Keep, a huge crimson monstrosity, walled against all enemies, but with a stench so terrible even Drogon flew off course.

Harrenhal, a mess of charred and melted spires, forged by a weapon she was far too familiar with. It looked as cursed as Tyrion's stories said it was.

The Eyrie, milky white towers so tall that she had to fly higher just to clear them. The land around them was so barren that she wondered how any of them survived.

The cluttered forests opened up into vast frozen plains, and Dany knew she had entered the North. Her other clue had been the massive, impossibly high edifice of ice that challenged everything she knew about buildings.

 

_Carved from ice and miles tall, there is none other like it in all the world_.

 

The words of the Red Priest rang in her head, and she could not dismiss the feeling that his other warnings were without reason. Dany stayed her course along the waterline, keeping the shimmering, blue-white monolith ahead. The closer she got, the higher it rose.

The keening air around her dropped to freezing, and the chilling mist clung to her skin, liquid for a moment. All too soon the cold would crust the droplets to ice, a solid lacquer forming upon her cheeks and brow. It cooled even the fiery blood of the dragon. She scrubbed her face with a seam in her glove, being careful to avoid the stinging cold of the metal plates; one touch had been enough to make her never want to repeat the experience.

She flew closer still, and saw the black keeps rise up out of shining glass prisons, one after the other. The ancient dwellings of the Night's Watch, Tyrion had told her, all but a few abandoned after hundreds of years of faithful service. Dany didn't know their names, but there was one near the coast that seemed to be well kept, and perhaps even inhabited. She kicked Drogon with her heels, after two attempts the dragon reluctantly descended, allowing her a closer look at the keep. Dany made a note to talk to Tyrion about some kind of boot being made to match her gloves.

She saw no lanterns or candles, but many of the windows had been shuttered closed, possibly to keep the perpetual frost at bay. The gates and stairs appeared to be in good working order, but what caught her attention was the wooden structure just south of the Wall. It was a large boat, though not so large as the ones transporting her army, and much of the wood was charred by fire. That was not enough to sink the ship, which had made it here from wherever it had set sail originally.

Whoever had captained it didn't seem to care or lacked the basic skills needed to anchor or pull ashore. They had instead smashed upon the rocks, which were smoothly coated in frozen seawater, but plainly visible. The hull had shattered and splintered, but there was enough momentum to drive the ship up onto the ice locked sand, where it slid for a dozen feet before coming to rest where it lay. Radiating outwards from the wreckage, the thin coating of ice was shattered and the sand was churned up, as if many bodies had left at once.

Dany saw the figurehead on the prow, or what was left of it, and a memory sparked in recognition. The remains of a mermaid, turned hideous through damage by ice and fire, were the same as the visions from the House of the Undying. She remembered it still, the bright, cold eyes of the man at the helm, boring into her as if he could see beyond the veil.

She tried to spiral lower to investigate, but Drogon had different ideas, and told her so with a roaring snort of disapproval. Dany was about to assert her will and demand him to land, but a thin trail of smoke from the north made her think twice. Instead she let her dragon lead, and he took her higher.

He flapped his massive wings, gaining momentum as he shook off sheets of ice so large that Dany could hear them as they smashed into the earth below. Then they had made it up and over the Wall, and she saw what Drogon had known all along.

There was a swarm of activity, similar to the bodies in motion she saw near Storm's End, but instead of one mass, there appeared to be two opposing ones. Clothed in dark and bulky furs, one side seemed at desperate odds. They seemed hindered, slower to strike than their enemies. These men were falling to the ground much faster, Dany realized. As yet another fell, she noticed that they were the only ones carrying torches.

She was closer now, close enough to make out faces if she squinted against the freezing sleet. To her relief, the man with the torch rose up again from where she thought he had lay dead in the snow. The relief turned to horror as she noticed the torch was left to gutter in a snowbank, and the man proceeded to attack his own side with a bare handed ferocity that seemed inhuman. One glance at his glowing eyes and Dany knew with cold certainty that she was dealing with exactly that: the inhuman.

 

_They number one, then many as they seek the hot blood of the living and freeze it to their will. Those they take remember nothing, only the hunger in the cold is reflected out of their ashen faces and ice blue eyes._

 

Dany had been in enough battles that the dividing line between the skirmish was easy to spot. She tapped Drogon with her heels to descend, and this time he obeyed without hesitation, dropping like a stone. Dany could barely see against the sheer driving force of the wind as they plummeted, but she trusted him to act when the moment was right.

A snap, like a mainsail caught in a gale, and Dany knew exactly where they were. She tapped twice, and felt a blissful heat surround her as Drogon blasted dragon fire across the entire back line. She heard the high keening of screams, much too piercing to be human, before the deep thrum of Drogon's beating wings took the fore. They climbed straight up into the sky, and Dany took a moment to inspect their work.

The snow and ice that covered the ground had melted away for hundreds of feet. She had expected to see a line of charred and burning corpses, which was the unfortunate side effect of fighting with dragons. Instead, there was nothing but cleared earth, as if her foes themselves were also made of ice, and had evaporated into a puff of steam.

Perhaps a third of the strange, blue eyed foes had been annihilated, so Dany made another pass. A kick of her heels and then a thrilling drop as Drogon rushed towards the ground in a dizzying plunge. The snap of wings, two taps just so and then a wall of black, shot through with red, to burn away the ice that froze in her enemies' veins.

An exhausted but enthusiastic cheer rose up from the other side, one that she easily recognized as human, and Dany was glad. No matter the awful circumstances that had driven her out into the storm and on this northern trek, she was glad that she had arrived in time for this.

This is what it meant to rule over the Seven Kingdoms, it had nothing to do with seating that hulking mess of iron forged by her mad father, and everything to do with the rejuvenated looks of hope the beleaguered fighters now wore as they rallied again and smashed the front line. Her endless hours hearing complaints and trivial injuries in Essos while her body languished on that ebon bench were worth nothing. The enemy was beginning to thin, and Dany was afraid that another pass of dragon fire would set both friend and foe alight. She spiked the heel of her palm into Drogon, pulling him in a tight circle as she swooped over the charging men and headed for something that looked like a commander. It wasn't hard; she simply had to find the fire.

Dany had come upon a last stand, behind the attacking lines was a wall of fire, well maintained and burning high. The torrential outpour of smoke spiraling skyward was what she had seen earlier. If the men had been forced to retreat, _or turned,_ she thought grimly, they would have nothing to go back to but the flames. Behind that line was another bonfire, and a small group was shouting commands to a cluster of archers. The bowmen spent a moment to bend and dip their arrows into a bucket of pitch before lighting them and launching a volley into their blue eyed attackers.

Landings were still a bit of a work in progress for Dany, and she looked for someplace suitable to touch down that would not maim or kill anyone if she landed off target. That's when she noticed the pier. A row of ships were tied off against a crude bridge of planking that extended out into the sea. There seemed to be gaps in the row, and Dany had to wonder if the wreck she had seen earlier had come from this place.

The entryway was heavily guarded, but the pier itself was empty, she kicked her heels and clenched her teeth, waiting for the shock.

Drogon's claws touched down, but she realized, as well as he, that the wood was slick with ice, and he scrabbled for purchase as they slid down the length of the rapidly vanishing bridge.

"Ondos!" Dany yelled with all her strength. The Valyrian word for 'hand' was the command she used when she needed Drogon to pick up supply crates, she hoped it would work in this situation.

A splintering sound came from beneath them and Drogon stopped so abruptly that, had Dany not already been braced for impact, she would have flown off his back and into the frigid sea. She added a harness to the quickly growing list of things she needed to talk to Tyrion about.

Dany squinted her eyes open, wondering when she had shut them, and cautiously looked down. Drogon's long claws had cracked through the top layer of ice, but remained deeply lodged in the irregular, cobbled together wood. She heard footsteps and shouting coming from behind them, most likely the guards she had seen on the way down. Drogon roared in irritation, snorting as he readied himself to incinerate the ice and wood that held him captive.

Dany heard the ships creaking around her and realized that dragon fire was the very last thing this situation needed.

"Kelitis!" Dany commanded, as she slid off the dragon's back. He bared his teeth and gnashed his jaws. "Kelitis!" She shouted again, willing him to keep still.

"Brave lass, I'm not sure if your beast be friend or foe, but if he keeps burning them wights I'll take 'im t'bed all the same, har!" A giant red haired mountain of a man led the group that was running up to meet her.

"Keep back!" Dany warned them. "He's trapped in the dock!" She looked at their motley collection of weapons. "Does anyone have an axe, a hammer, anything?"

The bearded man stepped forward. "Let it not be said that Tormund let his title of Breaker of Ice be lain to rest without a fight." He shouldered a large, spiked warhammer. "Just show me where to swing, lass."

She showed the man Tormund where Drogon was caught fast in the wood and ice, and he prepared to swing. Dany did the best she could to distract her unruly child as he tried to get at both his foot and the stranger who intended to free him.

"Kelitis." She ordered sternly, over and over again, as she circled Drogon and struck the metal plates on her palms together. The noise kept him occupied until she heard a grunt from Tormund, followed by the splintering of wood as he punched through the deck. Drogon roared and flapped his wings as he freed himself, trying to stay upright. The rest of the group was beyond the range of his wingtips, but Tormund was not so lucky. The thin membrane that spanned Drogon's wing hit him squarely where he stood.

Dany rushed forward in an attempt to rescue him out of the frozen waves before she realized that Tormund stood fast, laughing. It was Drogon who looked off balance.

"Har! Nice try, ya beastie, but who's fancy now?"

Drogon snorted, disgruntled, and gathered up his draconic dignity. Dany was about to introduce herself when a hollow wailing split the air, drawing everyone's attention. Two blasts on an otherworldly horn, and then Dany could hear shouts and cheering coming from the men still on shore.

"Ya hear that, lads?" Tormund crowed. "Those bastard wights are running scared."

The ragged band that had followed Tormund out onto the dock cheered. Forgetting entirely about this complete stranger and her dragon, they turned and ran back to where their comrades were celebrating. Dany found herself alone on the dock with her dragon and the man Tormund, who put out a hand.

"Greetings, lass, what do they call you? I'm Tormund Giantsbane, Tall Talker, Horn Blower, Ice Breaker, Mead King o' Ruddy Hall, Husband to Bears, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts."

Dany took the proffered hand, waiting to match him title for title.

"Daenerys Targaryen," she said sweetly, "the Stormborn, the Unburnt, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Queen of the Andals, Breaker of Chains, _Khaleesi_ of the Great Grass Sea, and, lastly," she gestured to Drogon, "Mother of Dragons."

Tormund laughed heartily at this. "Har, lass!" He said, completely ignoring her titles, "You must be that Silver Dragon Queen all them kneelers keep flapping their jaws about."

Dany was about to correct the man, but there was something about the way he said 'kneelers,' as if the whole ruling system of Westeros didn't apply to him, that gave her pause. He had referred to her as queen; he just hadn't addressed her as one. She decided to wait, and leave the barb of proper conversation for another time.

A stiff breeze came up off of the water, and Dany shivered in response, realizing she was still incredibly unprepared for northern Winter.

"Here, lass." Tormund said, offering up his heavy outer cloak. "Though this is all I can give, else I'd have to give the camp a peek o' me member."

"Which they have not...seen before?" Dany asked, gratefully taking the heavy fur cloak and wrapping it around her. She had owned bed sheets that were smaller.

"They have not." He said solemnly. " 'Tis so large that one look, and all the men would go blind and the women faint."

Dany laughed, despite herself. "Thank you for the cloak, Tormund Tall Talker. Could you take me to these 'kneelers' that speak of me so frequently?"

"I'll take you to the Lord o' the Crows, lass, he's always talking about the rightful ruler o' this or that. 'Course, I'll only take you if he still lives, he made us stay behind while he pranced through that wall of fire, pretty as you please. He's a tough kill, that Jon, wights ain't got him yet." Tormund leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. "I think it's his pretty new eyes, scares them frozen bastards right off," he paused for a moment to think, "or maybe it's his flaming sword."

Dany was perplexed by this speech. The Lord of the Crows had a new set of eyes, whatever that meant, and a flaming sword to match. She debated asking Tormund about specifics, but as they approached the huge fire and the incredibly varied group that surrounded it, she was certain she would see it all in person soon enough.

"Those who serve the Lord of Light triumph once more!" It was a woman's voice, and the accent, with its rich musicality, sounded vaguely familiar. Dany searched the crowd to find the speaker. She caught a glimpse of shining crimson robes snapping in the stiff breeze that blew off the water.

The woman was clothed sheerly for the North, and was wearing less than Dany had when she had flown in on Drogon. How she remained relaxed and seemingly unconcerned with the frost that surrounded her was truly a mystery. Dany hugged her borrowed cloak tighter, snuggling into her nest of fur lined warmth. The warmth intensified as the woman in crimson tossed a cloud of dust into the fire. The flames spiked skyward with a roar, they were so hot and so bright that Dany shut her eyes against the sudden flash. She felt the heat pulse against her face and eyelids, banishing the bone chilling cold. Dany took a few deep breaths, feeling her quaking muscles finally begin to loosen up as her body warmed and adjusted to this new climate.

"The Red Woman." Tormund informed her. Dany thought it was both a fairly useless and obvious title, but he spoke it with an air of reverence, so she must have been a crucial member of their council.

Everyone near the fire, with the exception of the Red Woman, had bundled up into thickly layered furs, so it was difficult to identify them. Dany saw what looked to be a small man or child, seated atop a white goat. The animal possessed a single horn that twisted and spiraled outward from the top of its head.

Also approaching the circle was a giant of a man, easily a head taller than Tormund; he carried a boy in his arms, crowned with an unruly mop of shaggy brown hair. Dany was about to ask about the boy and his giant when Tormund let out a yell.

"Ha har! I knew they couldn't fell you!" He thumped a fist against his chest and raised it toward the returning army before changing courses and heading straight for them. Dany stayed close behind.

Tormund Tall Talker hadn't been that far off the mark, the group was indeed led by a man with a flaming sword. It lit the way as they marched through the gathering dark. He was dressed warmly, but the layers were form fitting, and he appeared much smaller than the mountains of fur and hide striding behind him. Dany wondered if there was any relation to the Red Woman, since both of them seemed unaffected by the cold that seeped through everything and chilled her to the marrow.

"They almost had us." He said, sheathing the still burning weapon into a scabbard strapped across his back. The sword was so long that it extended out past his body when fully seated. Dany had expected him to douse the blade first, like the Meereenese pit fighters sometimes did when they used flaming weaponry, but the sword continued to glow and burn from inside of the scabbard. The swordsman stopped to chat with Tormund, and the rest of the army continued on towards the fire tended by the Red Woman. Dany heard the battle being retold to Tormund, who had missed most of it by guarding the docks. Some parts included her, but the words slipped past her like the cloud banks did when she sat atop Drogon. She was transfixed by the sword, watching in fascination as the flames twisted and danced deep within their envelope of glossy, green black-

"Is that dragonglass?" Dany interrupted, stepping out from behind Tormund as the opportunity for formal introductions vanished.

The man with the sword stopped immediately and paled. Living in the north, he had barely any skin color to begin with, but the russet glow in his frost kissed cheeks vanished.

"It's you." He whispered, barely audible.

"It is." Dany answered normally, not really knowing what to say to that. Other than stories from Tormund, she had no idea who he was or why he was looking at her in disbelief, like she had just stepped out of the spirit world. He kept staring and Dany had the uniquely strange experience of looking into vibrantly violet eyes, something she thought would never happen again after Viserys found his end under a stream of molten gold. Dany could see a lock of hair peeking out from beneath his hood, a mottled curl stranded in brown and platinum, the same color as her own. She found herself foundering; the only thing that saved her was deeply ingrained protocol.

"Daenerys Targaryen," Dany said, not sure if shaking hands was appropriate. "Queen of the Andals and..." She trailed off into silence. His gaze still locked with hers, unblinking, as if looking away for even the space of a single heartbeat could make her vanish.

Thankfully Tormund broke the silence by clapping her on the back and laughing, amused by this standoff.

"Har, lass, I forgot to mention, this here is Jon Snow, Lord o' the Crows and the stuff of legends, if you believe the tales the Red Woman tells."

"I'm no longer Lord Commander, Tormund," Jon said, "I gave that up when they lit the pyre."

"Aye," Tormund agreed, "and then you bloody well walked out of it, touched your sword with nary more than a pinky finger and now it burns day and night and cuts through them bastards as if they weren't even there. If the Crows don't want to follow you after that, I know a fair bit of men that will."

_He walked out of a pyre._ Dany's mind raced, who could he be? A Blackfyre, a lost Targaryen, could another bloodline have survived the Doom?

 

_The dragon has three heads._

 

"Who are you?" Dany asked him.

"My name is Jon Snow, just as Tormund said...my...lady?" Jon said, faltering for a title.

"Your grace..." Dany corrected automatically, but the words sounded hollow and empty when she used them here. "Who are your parents, Jon, where do you come from?"

"You must not be from here," Jon said, surprised, "my name tells the tale of my birth. My father was Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell."

_Stark._ The sharp knife of betrayal sang though her. Would her life never be rid of that name and its descendants?

"My la-grace, are you feeling well? You look ill." He stepped forward and put a steadying hand underneath Dany's elbow. She was surprised that he could even find it underneath the bear that Tormund used as a cloak.

This close, she realized that his eyes were not the same as Viserys' or her own, they were darker, more like tinted steel. Dany remembered a very similar set of eyes that belonged to a- _not a banker_ , she told herself. Those eyes belonged to an assassin she had left pinned to her wall and bleeding. Her mind recalled them with cheerful exactness despite this, and she grudgingly had to admit that, other than a difference of color, Jon's were the very same. It was as if the blood of a Stark trumped even the fire of old Valyria.

Dany straightened, rallying. "But who was your mother?" She asked. "Where did she come from?"

He laughed, it was short and bitter. "I have been asking those questions all my life, Daenerys." Jon had dispensed with his awkward and fumbling attempts at titles. He sounded the syllables of her name slowly, as reverently as a prayer or a word of power, called upon to ward off the coming dark.

There may have been something to that. She was here, standing at the edge of the known world after flying in on a creature that had been extinct for hundreds of years, only to save these people from a last stand against monsters usually reserved for children's nightmares.

Dany looked up to see soft white flakes drifting around them.

"Snow." She said softly. "I had forgotten." Dany wasn't sure whether she meant the lineage surrounding Jon or the stark frozen beauty that swirled around them. Either way, this odd conversation had become too much for Tormund, who cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Since yer getting along so well, I should make myself scarce. I hear a Skaagosi ale cask singing me name." He said, starting to walk away. "You can keep the cloak, lass, but you're going to need a sight more than that once night hits."

Tormund trudged away, the crunching of his footsteps broke the heavy silence brought by the falling snow until they faded off, leaving Dany and Jon alone in the somber quiet.

Dany found her mind brimming with questions she couldn't seem to speak aloud. What were they fighting? Why had Jon been in the pyre to begin with? What was his relation to the Red Woman? Who had made his scabbard? Did he know he was family to an assassin? The list went on and on, but her lips stayed shut, unwilling to budge.

"I suppose you're wondering why I was so surprised to see you." Jon said first, breaking the stalemate.

"I am rather recognizable," Dany admitted, "but you knew _me_ , not Daenerys Targaryen the Silver Queen. You acted as if we had met before, and I can assure you that is impossible."

"Not met," Jon said, looking down and pushing back an errant lock of brown and silver hair. "But seen, or at least half seen."

_Half seen._ Dany herself had used those words to describe the visions from the House of the Undying.

"When did you see this?" Dany asked, trying to decipher Jon's experience.

"When I awoke in a lit pyre." Jon said, his voice very small. His eyes flicked past her and focused on something far beyond them, the memory itself.

"How did it feel?" Dany asked, perhaps the only person in the entire world that could truly empathize with him.

"How do you think it felt?" Jon shot back, suddenly enraged. "It felt like every last scrap of my soul was on fire. It felt like my skin was being torn from my body an inch at a time. It felt like-"

"Rebirth." Dany finished for him.

Jon stopped, his eyes wide in disbelief, his silence an unspoken plea. _When?_

"Dragons are born of fire, Jon, fire and blood."

He looked like he wanted to press further, but Dany shook her head. "This is your story, not mine, so please tell me, after the fear, and the pain, and the blistering, and the numbness, how did it feel to start anew?"

"It felt like freedom." Jon whispered, the guilt of a secret plain on his face.

"What did you see, in the fire?" Dany asked.

"You, flying atop a large black dragon as he spit fire, the same as I saw today."

"Anything else? Places, buildings, enemies, animals, flowers, did you see yourself?"

Jon closed his eyes, immersing himself in memory. "Towers, towers as tall as the Wall, but made of ice. Dragons circle above."

"What color are they?" Dany asked anxiously.

"Hard to see." Jon’s closed eyelids squinted. "There's a blizzard. One is...green? Yes, there! I see it. It's green!"

_Rhaegal_. Dany realized her wayward dragon might not be so for very much longer. The other could be either Drogon or Viserion, both would be hard to see in the midst of a blizzard.

"Is anyone with you on the ground?"

"My pack." Jon answered instantly.

"Your pack?" Dany was confused.

"My brothers, my sister, the poisoned ones are coming, we're waiting."

"Who is waiting?"

"All of us, Summer, Shaggy, Nymeria. I'm not...I'm Ghost."

"You're a ghost?" This vision quest was taking a turn towards the ridiculous.

Jon's eyes opened at her interruption, and all she could see were the whites.

"Nymeria!" Jon shouted. "I have to tell Bran."

Before Dany could ask why a time honored but long dead warrior queen was important, Jon's steely purple eyes were back and he was reaching out for Dany's hand.

"Daenerys, you should stay the night," he said, his breath frosting with every word. It was not so much a sensible suggestion as a promise of things to be revealed. "A good friend of mine believes that the night is dark and full of terrors. Here, that is normally true, but you incinerated more than half of their attack force, and that will take time to remake. Please stay, meet my brothers, and have a meal with us. The Skaagosi have brought food with them, a rarity in this place during winter, and the wildlings should see the woman that fought so valiantly on their behalf."

Dany hesitated. "I need to get back to my army and my counselors, to discuss strategy and how best to-"

"Stake your claim?" Jon suggested. "The wildlings do not follow blood, only strength, but they are a formidable ally and should not be overlooked. Together, the wildlings have both outfought me and saved me from certain death more times than I can count. If you are looking for followers that haven't sworn fealty to a king you are about to declare enemy, these are the ones you want."

"They are not...how did Tormund put it, 'kneelers?'"

Jon shook his head. "Caught that, did you? No monarch has ever been able to bind them together. The only man that could was publicly executed by Stannis Baratheon. If you continue to burn up their deadliest enemies, they'll have no choice but to love you and follow you to the lush green South."

 "They want Highgarden?" Dany asked, suddenly cautious.

 Jon laughed. It was real and deep, the kind that shook you from the belly up and made tears form at the corners of your eyes. 

"Daenerys," he gasped, catching his breath, "you are at the edge of the mapped world, these people would be happy with the bleakest patch of frozen Westeros soil you could offer, so long as it was on the other side of the Wall. When you are this far north, _everything_ is south."

Jon offered up his hand again. "Please, Daenerys, stay for dinner. Whoever is vying for the Iron Throne of King's Landing will still be there, doing nothing helpful, when you go back to your army. Stay and meet the people who are trying to save the world."

"Then I will." Dany said, placing her hand in his and hiking up the hem of Tormund's cloak.

Jon smiled, it was genuine and easy. By the way it lit up his face and shaved years off his appearance, it must have been the first one he'd had for many, many days.


	19. Ch 18 - Bran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So yeah, this took me forever, and I had to reformat the chapter order like three times, and do a bunch of research about the Long Night and the Children and the Targaryen Freehold and the Moonsingers so I could set up the Skagosi myth I'm about to sling. Also forgive me for my Bran/Meera 'shipping, for although I am a femslash writer and this is definitely not that, at least it is somewhat feminist, or at least that's what I told myself after Meera stalked me in the night and insisted they have a character development chapter.

**Ch 18 - Bran**

Bran had warged once he heard the horn sound in alarm. He sent Summer dashing into the fray, ripping and tearing at the dead frozen things indiscriminately as they broke through the guard line and charged the pier. He kept after them, dismembering and taking down as many as he could, but they kept on, as if they knew what they were after. He hadn't thought much about it at the time, but after a while Bran could feel a rolling deck beneath Summer's paws as he growled and lunged. The wights had made it on board a ship.

Someone amongst the archers hit a lucky shot and set the mainsail aflame. Burning canvas fell all around them, and eventually the ship itself caught fire. There had been a loud snap and a splintering noise as both the railing surrounding the deck and the rope tying them to the dock separated from the ship. Bran could hear the horrified shouting through Summer's sensitive ears, but the wolf paid it no mind. He only hesitated once when he felt the sheer terror of Bran's realization hit him.

His wolf was trapped at sea with a ship full of white walkers, alone. It was certain death, no reinforcements would be coming, just one direwolf against more than three score of the enemy.

He fought brutally, as only a cornered animal can. His teeth were never sharper, his jaws were never stronger, and the fire all around them did some of his work for him. Slight splashes sounded as flaming wights took to the frozen sea, hoping to better their odds of survival.

Suddenly Summer was at the advantage, backing them into the burning railing before lunging and tearing again and again.

From his peripheral vision, Bran could see the wights sidle towards the mast, climbing up in an attempt to escape the jaws of both the direwolf and the fire. There they stayed, waiting until an arctic gale gusted through the remnants of the useless sail, dousing the ship and the fires.

Summer paced around the mast, growling ceaselessly, but the white walkers would dared not move.

The sun set, and rose, and set again, each time leaving a miserable, shivering Summer to curl up onto the deck at the base of the mast, tuck his nose under his tail and attempt to sleep. The stalemate lasted for three days. Bran was afraid to leave Summer alone, lest he be attacked while he was away eating or sleeping, so he stayed. He felt guilty for relying on Jojen and Meera to feed his body while he was skinchanging, but there was no other choice.

On the fourth day he saw the Wall looming up on the horizon, visible to them even at sea. Waves began to lap at the hull, dragging them in towards shore in an incessant rocking. Suddenly the motion calmed, and a strange absence of sound filled Summer's senses. The floor under him tilted, first a little, then more and more as the ship pointed skywards, caught in a massive tidal pull. Summer's paws scratched against the rough wood as he tried to stay in place, splinters lodged into his footpads as Bran realized the effort was futile. Summer was sliding across the deck, seconds from falling into the open sea. Bran panicked, racking his brain and Summer's skills, he needed to stay out of the water at all costs, if the cold didn't kill Summer, the wave certainly would.

The thick silence exploded into chaos and noise as the ship blew apart against one of the large, pointed rocks that jutted out along the coastline, keeping southern Westeros defended at sea the same way the Wall did on land. Summer flew through the air, and both Bran and the wolf braced themselves for agony or death.

Summer hit ice, and it cracked and shattered beneath him. The wolf was half submerged in the water before either of them could react. Summer swam, paddled, jumped, did everything his body could do to get him up and onto the ice.

The direwolf's body began to shut down, his thick outer coat no match for the water as it soaked through his fur and started to freeze. It was becoming harder to move. He felt stabbing pains along Summer's back and shoulders, they throbbed with even the slightest motion, always the same consistency.  _Splinters,_ Bran presumed. A horn sounded nearby, three mournful blasts, and it occurred to Bran that they were near Eastwatch.

 _They have fire, go to the man fire._  He pleaded with Summer. Each step was torture, but the direwolf plodded forward, refusing to give up and lay down in the snow.

There was the sound of men running and shouting, then three more blasts on the horn. The gates to Eastwatch were left open as the men of the Watch raised an attack and met whatever was behind them. Summer stumbled and fell, caking his wet fur with newly fallen snow that cracked like a sheet of white scales and covered his tawny body. The men rushed past, and Summer remained unnoticed.

_Get up!_

Bran was panicking now, his heart was racing even though Summer's kept to the same slow tempo it always had, losing speed as each moment passed.

 _Move!_ His mind screamed. _You've got to get up!_

 _Summer!_ He tried to take over, to get a limb to twitch, a tail to wag, anything. He focused the entire intensity of his will on moving even a single foot.

 _Summer, please._ Bran begged.  _Get up..._  But he was even losing faith himself.

A slow, fluttering heartbeat, and then darkness began to wind its insidious fingers into the direwolf. Death would take them. Bran felt a chunk of his soul drift away with each of Summer's labored breaths.

He remembered the ravens roosting deep beneath the earth, each of them indelibly etched with the riders that came before him. Was the opposite true, would Summer always be stamped across his heart, the wolf coming with him skinchange after skinchange?

Should he sever their connection? Even as he thought it, Bran knew he could do no such thing, the action felt traitorous and wrong. He would stay until the end, even if it cost him his sanity.

"What's this here, eh?" There was a prodding at his back, perhaps a tentative boot toe, and then some of the caked snow was cleared away, making it easier for Summer to breath.

"That's a big'un," said a second voice, "make a right nice pelt if'n you fancy it."

"And get et? You idiot, the thing's still breathing."

"We could fix 'im up good, then."

Rough hands and arms encircled his chest.

_Don't touch him._

The limbs tightened and squeezed, crushing the life out of him, he had to move, had to run, had to get out.

 _No, get away!_ Bran yelled, even though he knew it was only in their minds.

 _Summmmer!_  He tried one last time, surely his wolf would rally, as he always had.

The darkness was closer now, it was getting harder to see, the men and the hands were winning, choking the life from them.

"SUMMMMMMMMMMMER!"

"Shhhhhhh." Came a soothing and familiar voice. Bran felt strong arms wrapped securely around him in the darkness, despite the fact that his whole body was slick with sweat. "It's okay, it was just a dream, Summer's fine, you know this, you checked on him yesterday."

Bran's mind reeled as he came to the present. He began to calm, the solid warmth of Meera's arms grounding him as she chased away the last vestiges of the nightmare.

The men had been trying to help, he remembered, they had gotten Summer to a fire and some warm broth after a transfer from Castle Black had identified the giant wolf as similar to the one the new Lord Commander had.

Summer had rallied, after all, and continued his trek southward, where to Bran's surprise and relief, he encountered Nymeria in the swamps of the Neck. She and her pack had been hunting in the damp forests that surrounded the marshy bogs. Bran checked in on them every few days, not rushing them, since Summer was taking advantage of the warmer climate and putting back on the weight and muscle he had lost through their mutual Northern starvation.

He often wondered if Arya was still alive, since he saw no traces of her anywhere near the weir woods he looked through. She was either dead and gone, or had travelled somewhere he could not see. Knowing how hard headed and resourceful his sister was, he opted to believe the latter, and tried to send messages to her through Nymeria. Since she wasn't trained as a skinchanger, the odds that she would have heard his messages were slim, but Bran knew that Jon sometimes dreamt as Ghost, so perhaps the same was true of his other siblings.

"Thank you." Bran said quietly, realizing that his rapid breathing had finally slowed.

Meera smiled against his shoulder, which he felt as the muscles in her face shifted. "Between your nightmares and Jojen's greendreams, I've certainly got my hands full."

"There are no better hands to be in." Bran said confidently, relaxing into her embrace. He saw her look up at him with a quickly hidden sadness. The glint of almost tears was plain, even in the dim light of the far off watch fire.

This had been happening for weeks, not just the nightmares, which had abated somewhat when Meera decided to share sleeping furs with him. She had cited additional warmth and said she preferred not having to stumble around in the dark, rocky cave while she was still half asleep and exhausted from fighting, but Bran felt that there was more to it than just that.

He squinted at the opening to the cave, trying to judge the hour of the day. They had been sleeping when the sun was out, since the night had been creeping up on them earlier and earlier, and with it came the wights.

"We have a few hours left," Bran decided, judging by the darkness that usually meant early dawn, "lay down with me?"

Meera nodded and stretched out, shifting from her cramped position. Bran nestled into the crook of her shoulder. That had taken some negotiation. Initially, he'd had some ideas about how people were supposed to lie down together, but Meera was much taller than Bran. With the position reversed, Bran was on edge, tense and sweating as he tried to find a comfortable position to accommodate her larger frame, eventually, despite his best efforts, back cramps would get the best of Meera. In the end, he decided that comfort was infinitely more important than his stubborn pride, and both of them slept better as a result.

Bran exhaled contentedly, warm and secure. Meera rolled her eyes at him, but the subtle tension that perpetually ran through her hunter's body lessened perceptibly. She had kept her senses sharp as a razor's edge the entire time they had been alone in the snow and amongst the Children, but here, with guards and wargs and wildlings to alert her, she could afford to relax a bit, and generally did when they were together.

Generally. They had been getting closer, certainly, but every time Bran felt totally at ease and did something that was perhaps too forward or too silly, or complimented her, she would suddenly shy away. There was a wall she maintained and he wasn't sure why.

The malicious, angry, self-deprecating part was happy to supply an answer for him. Who would want a crippled freak, useless for anything but seeing things that could not be changed and stealing the strength of others?

That thought usually came during his moments of weakness and doubt. When he was calm and rational, he would remember the countless nights spent by the fire. Bran never felt so whole as he did when they were talking and laughing together. He and Meera would tell stories from their people while Jojen dreamed, with Hodor piping in every once in a while.

At first, anyway, it wasn't long after they had first set out that Bran began to spend most of his time in Summer, trying to learn as much as he could about being a skinchanger. Those night hunts, as exhilarating as they were for Bran, were probably incredibly lonely for her. Bran felt her breathing even out and slow in sleep, and he spared a moment to look up at her, easily picking out her strong profile in the darkness. That strength what he always saw when he looked at her, an indomitable will that defied all odds. He would apologize for those long, lonely, nights, Bran decided. He would tell her and make her understand that without her, his and Jojen's and Hodor's collective uselessness would have gotten them all killed, or worse, long ago. He yawned, sleepily,  _I just need to let her see what I see, what we all-_

A sudden noise woke them both with a start. Meera slipped out of the furs and quickly shrugged on the additional layers she would need for tonight's battle before starting to lace up the tough leather top layers.

She cinched the belt across her chest and shoulders that housed her tiny trident when it wasn't in use. Adjusting to the difficulties of fighting the white walkers, Meera had bound three small dragonglass daggers to the prongs of her spear. One of the things the Skagosi had brought with them was dragonglass, bushels and barrels of dragonglass in all shapes and sizes.

Bran couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, it felt too early.

Nearby, Hodor leaned up against the wall and laced up his boots, preparing to stand guard in the caverns. He had surprised everyone by studding a club with a dozen jagged arrowheads. He wasn't a good enough fighter to be allowed out into battle, but the practice had caught on, and now many wildlings sported wooden bludgeons that were liberally coated with the green-black shards.

The most unexpected reveal had been for Jon. A lookout had spotted a ship headed toward them, and every man, woman and child not immediately busy with some task left the shelter of the caves to see who was arriving. Their leader, a Singer if Bran had ever seen one, had ridden his tiny mount straight off the broad Skagosi skiff and directly to his brother. Jon had been apprehensive, and so was Bran. He didn't think there had been any other clans of the Children of the Forest, but this new arrival and his people had quietly and calmly erased that notion, along with everything else Bran thought he knew about the Children.

A long, shimmering cylinder was lashed to the side of his small white steed, longer than the animal itself. The beast was of a kind that Bran had never seen before. He wasn't sure if it was a small horse or a goat. It held its gait proudly as one single, spiraling horn jutted out from the base of its forelock. It snorted at them as it tossed its bearded head from side to side before stamping and pawing its cloven hooves into the frozen earth.

Without a word, their apparent leader released the cylinder and presented the object to Jon. He was so shocked that took it into his hands in pure reflex, staring blankly at the Skagosi for a few moments before actually looking down to see what he had been holding.

Bran looked down from his Hodor encased perch, squinting against the harsh glare of the snow. What he saw shocked him, it was a scabbard, hewn from a single solid piece of mirror smooth dragonglass, a piece larger than any Bran had seen before. There were no chips or tool marks marring the surface of it, and Bran realized this gift was made with means beyond the hands and minds of mortal men.

"Thank you." Jon said quietly, sketching a slight bow in gratitude, but doing nothing else with the scabbard.

The Skagosi's mount stamped again, echoing its rider's impatience as the Singer, if they even called themselves that, waved his hands, motioning for Jon to do something.

He said some words, and though the dialect was slightly different, the language was mostly the same. Bran was almost certain he heard the word 'promised.'

"I think it's for you." Bran said, hoping to ease Jon's predicament.

At that moment, the wood and leather strapped to Jon's back gave way, and his sword Longclaw plummeted to the ground with a sodden thunk. It buried itself deep in the hard packed snow, almost half the length of the blade disappearing into the hoarfrost.

The Skagosi waved his hands, indicating the sword, and it seemed like Jon finally understood. He took the scabbard in one hand, and wrenched Longclaw free with the other. He lined the fiery metal up with the smooth encasement and seated the blade. It fit perfectly.

The look of surprise on Jon's face was only outdone by the entranced stare of everyone around him, Bran included. Longclaw was generally too bright to look upon directly, but with the tinted sheen of dragonglass now surrounding it, Bran could see the flames as they flickered and danced. It was soothing and hypnotic, so much so that he almost forgot that a random tribe of the Children of the Forest had appeared.

"...hodor..." A soft voice rumbled beneath him. Even the stable boy was not immune to the blade's obvious charms. The large man's voice was enough to break Bran's gaze on the sword, and he suddenly recalled his manners.

" _I greet you."_  Bran said to the Skagosi, carefully mouthing the numerous vowels and odd intonations. He had picked up bits and pieces of the  _True Tongue_  during his tutelage under Bloodraven, but he was far from proficient at it.

The Skagosi looked startled, but it seemed that he understood Bran's statement, butchered as it was. He said some words back, still refraining from the Common Tongue if he knew it, some of the inflections were unfamiliar, but Bran understood enough despite this.

"What did he say?" Jon asked.

"He said his people are here to help." Bran told him. He listened more and was surprised, the Singer gave his full name, something that none of the Children had done during his stay with Bloodraven.

"He said his name is..." Bran screwed his eyes shut, focusing on the sounds of the words and what they meant. Then he spoke, haltingly and uncertain of himself. "If I understood correctly, he said his name is One Who Fathered Us All When the World Tree Danced as a Maiden."

"It's the Oldfather." Said an older woman near Jon, as if it meant something, and a wave of hushed whispers surged through the wildlings in response.

 _The Oldfather?_  Bran furrowed his brow. He hadn't heard this legend, not from his childhood spent with Old Nan in Winterfell, and not during his time beyond the Wall.

"Aye," she said, "when the First o' the Free Folk sought the Children out to stop t'Others, the Oldfather found him an' taught him the Children's secrets. 'Course his name wasn't 'Oldfather,' it was some such like you just said, 'cept that's much harder t'remember."

"But that was-"  _Thousands of years ago…_  Bran finished silently. How could that be? If One Who Fathered Us All When the World Tree Danced as a Maiden, Bran saw the appeal of simply referring to him as the Oldfather, was really alive during the Long Night, how could he be standing here before him? Bloodraven had lasted the ages by sacrificing himself to the limbs and roots of the weirwood, but here was the Oldfather, untethered and seemingly spry as the rest of the Children he led.

There had to be another explanation, eight thousand year old beings didn't just stop by and offer you magical scabbards. Then again, it was not every day that the white walkers rose up to overthrow an army of wildlings and skinchangers led by a previously deceased Lord Commander of the Night's Watch with a flaming sword before attempting to collapse a magical wall of ice that spanned taller than most men could walk in a day.

"Perhaps his name is just a title." Bran piped up. "Like Lord Commander or King Beyond the Wall."

"Mayhaps." The woman said, but Bran could see that she and the wildlings were reserving judgement.

He had the urge to believe them as well. Even if One Who Fathered Us All When the World Tree Danced as a Maiden was a title, it meant that his people were linked to the origin myth carried by the wildlings. If they brought dragonglass, they most likely possessed knowledge of why and when it was to be used. This tribe had also survived the arrival of the Andals, and might know secrets and magic that Bran had only just begun to glimpse towards the end of his stay amongst the Singers.

Granted, some of that magic required sacrifices that Bran was unwilling to pay, of himself as well as of others on his behalf, but perhaps not all of it was so costly.

Thus far the interaction with the Skagosi had only brought good. They had managed to bring food with them. It was dense and hearty, and Bran had been full at mealtimes for the first time since he had left Winterfell. There was even a Skagosi ale of sorts, though Bran had no idea what it could have been made from, a small rocky island north of the Wall couldn't yield much in the way of grain. His best guess, from the smell of it, was tree bark, but it seemed to please the wildlings, so he never remarked upon it.

There were three more urgent blasts on the horn from the few members of the Watch on guard. Meera checked her lacings one last time and crouched down to hug Bran before tousling his unkempt hair and kissing the top of his head. He squeezed her back, trying to impart all the things he never could seem to say out loud in the embrace. They had become proficient at killing the wights through daily practice, but you never knew what could happen in battle.

"Be careful." He warned her.

"Always." She promised.

"Wait just a minute," he asked her, before quickly searching for one of the crows that lurked around camp, eager to peck at the dead flesh, moving or no, that was left after each battle. He slipped inside, and was met with the blinding sparkle of the afternoon sun, something was indeed very wrong.

"It's daylight outside." Bran said, trying not to panic. "You know what that means."

Meera nodded. "I'll make sure he knows, Bran."

The wights had only organized one other attack during daylight, it was the day they made it to the docks.

"Don't get caught out there." He pleaded, his voice cracked in the unflattering way it had lately, but he didn't care. "If it starts to go bad, come back before-"

She silenced him with a single finger to his lips. "I'll do my best." Meera told him, the same way she always did.

He heard her footsteps recede and leaned back against the rough stone wall before pulling the furs up tight around his body. Usually the battles would last all night, but this, this was something else entirely, and he needed to make sure his body was kept warm, since no one would be around to check on him.

Once he had done that, he relaxed his mind and reached for the one solitary being he knew he would need today.

Rage flowed through the bear as he swiped a paw against the dead thing. They were intruding on his territory, his den, his hunting lands. Shreds of flesh tore away from the body, coating his claws. Another swipe and a limb ripped free, spinning off into the snow. He dropped to all fours and roared, closing his massive teeth around the chest of the thing. He bit down, feeling bones snap and collapse under the strength of his jaws. A deep growl rumbled from within when he tasted the frozen marrow and cartilage; it was half rotted and rancid on his tongue. Another bite and he felt the spine separate as the skull splintered into fragments. The limbs stopped moving and he dropped the carcass, intent on crushing another trespasser.

He stood upright, searching, and was met by a blast of wind. It was hot like man summer and startled him.

 _Dragon fire._ Whispered a small, wondering voice.

He dropped to the earth again and voiced his anger, baring large, yellowing canines to anything that would come. A second wind rushed past him and he stood his ground, daring the strangers to show themselves. Instead the above filled with the call of something larger, as large as the wooly long tooths, but living in the above instead of the far away ice plains. He lifted his head to look. It was shaped like the eagle, but bigger, bigger than any one that had come before it.

He sniffed the air, expecting the scent of ice and carrion. Instead he smelled only smoke and newly thawed earth.

Man things were yelling and running around him, but he paid them no mind. The intruders had been vanquished.

Bran opened his eyes, surprised to see Jojen and the wildlings crowded around him. They were kept behind for being either too young or too sick to fight.

"Was is the same as my dreams?" Jojen asked him, still frightfully fragile looking even after recovering from his ordeal. The trip underground had almost been the end of all three of them, but somehow they had made it to someplace safe. Using frozen twigs and ice soaked loam, his brother's friend Melisandre had managed to conjure up a fire. The details of what happened after that were still hazy, but he and the Reeds had made it through the night and out of those tunnels.

Bran was convinced that some kind of magic had occurred, but after his close encounter with the blood magic required to wed him to the trees, he cringed to think of what was needed to bring all of them back from the brink of death. Whatever means Jon and that woman had used, they had all come through that horrible experience alive.

What had happened was past and done, there was no use dwelling on it. What mattered now was that they share their knowledge and skills to help the wildings and the few remaining men of the Watch live through the present.

Aided perhaps a little by strange Targaryens riding in on dragons...

"The very same," Bran confirmed, "but more fiercely beautiful and potentially destructive than we could ever imagine."

"The queen or the dragon?"

"I was asking myself that same question." Bran closed his eyes and leaned back against the thick stone, gathering his thoughts. "We won't know until we meet them, which should be soon. Most of the wights were burned to less than ash after only two blasts of dragon fire."

Bran cracked open an eyelid and saw Jojen's eyebrows rise up into his shaggy hairline, clearly impressed.

"That many? Have you thought to-"

"Skinchange? No." Bran shook his head adamantly. "I don't even know what it is, it could be intelligent, it could be so strong I could get lose my way or even lose my sanity. It's far too dangerous to just dive into something as unknown as the first dragon Westeros has seen in over a hundred and fifty years." He hadn't mentioned that consciousness was a major concern. Bran loved Hodor, but he was a simpleton, capable of no more than sadly hiding in the dark recesses of his mind and waiting for the intruder to leave. Using Hodor that way had started to crack and shatter what lay at Bran's core, and he refused to cross that line anymore.

If the ancient beast was capable of independent thought, warging could do infinitely more damage, both to the dragon, as he tried to destroy himself to rid him of an unwanted passenger, and to Bran, whose mind would slip into madness as the pain became his own.

He had made that mistake with the mammoths, once before, and the speed at which he was discovered by both his target and the surrounding family was surreal. The mammoth he chose, as well as the others alongside, inflicted so much pain, and channeled so much anger, that he had no choice but to flee. He woke, sweating and fearful, and hoped no permanent damage had been done to the mammoth. After that, Bran was much more careful about who and what he chose to skinchange into.

There was a noise at the opening of the cave, followed by careful, almost soundless footfalls, they were the tread of a hunter.

Bran breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Though Jojen had never foreseen Meera joining the white walkers in his greendreams, Bran knew all too well how quickly the tide of battle could change. He had seen it himself, while nestled in the caverns, spanning across countless generations and rooted in dozens of eyes, a sudden victor would emerge, and either return to sacrifice and pay homage to the tree, or hang its bloody disciples from the boughs in sacrilege.

Regardless of the victor, winning meant you had to spill copious amounts of your enemy's blood. The tree accepted the offering either way, but for Bran, the violence and the horror had started to weigh heavy on his soul.

Meera scuffed her boots as she stopped in front of Bran and Jojen. From here, Bran could see the firelight illuminate her, catching faint sparkles in her hair as the crystalline snow melted in the relative warmth of the cavern. He glanced over her quickly, settling down once he realized she was uninjured.

A faint howling filled the air and stripped Bran from worrying over Meera. He reached for Summer, and to his incredible delight realized that he was not alone, his mission south had been a success.

Crossing back across the Wall to find had been tricky. Bran knew the closest gate lay beneath Nightfort, but they were short on men of the Watch, and he dared not ask it of the ones they had, they had already sacrificed so much. Of all people, the Lady Melisandre had seen his predicament and offered to go south to the eastern edge of the Wall with Ghost.

He planned to tell Summer the route home. The wolves would hug the coastline, treading carefully across the ever present ice that crested in upon the fallen waves and built up on shore. Melisandre's purpose was to create a fire so large, that even if the ice broke and the wolves had to cross the Wall by swimming, she would be able to keep them alive. She had left seven days prior, accompanied by Ghost, loaded with less food than they insisted she needed, and eschewing all weapons save for a single dragonglass dagger and a fiery brand.

"The Lord of Light provides." She explained simply, waving away anything she thought excessive.

Bran had been nervous, but his brief brush with Summer felt normal, the ice must have held up after all. He felt excitement about seeing Nymeria again, he wondered how large she had become. The pack was almost reunited, if only he knew where Osha and Rickon and Shaggydog had gone. He needed to query the Skagosi to see if they had any additional information.

"You need to tell him." Meera said, interrupting his musings. Bran quickly scanned through the past few minutes he had been thinking and realized she had been talking to Jojen, which meant he had imparted the details of his greendream to her, since Bran had just confirmed it.

"What do I say to him?" Bran asked plaintively, "I saw our father plead to the Heart Tree in Winterfell that you were the lost dragon prince, and by the way he's not your father and you're  _still_  a bastard."

"Those are the essentials, yes." Meera said, brooking no argument. "I'll help fill in the parts that my father told me, that should help it make sense." She ran her fingers through Bran's gnarled locks, trying to get them into some semblance of order. "Do you have a shirt that smells less like our sleeping furs and more like washday herbs?"

"I do." Bran said, annoyed, as he swiped her hands away and untangled his hair on his own. She shucked the shirt off of him and he shivered involuntarily as the cold air hit him.

"Good, put it on." She said, and Bran reached for his other shirt, popping his head through the neck and trying to order the sleeves.

"Why is all this necessary?" He asked Meera as she summoned Hodor over. The large stable boy knelt down and scooped him up in a practiced motion.

Meera smiled at him, a genuine one that made him forget he had been angry at her for bossing him around.

"We're going to have dinner with the Queen."


	20. Ch 19 - Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry this took so long, though I may be at about 4 weeks per chapter as a posting rate, so perhaps this is my normal interval. It was mostly done two weeks ago but I've been on vacation saving my cousin's wedding (it was successful and they are now happily honeymooning in Tokyo, but the ceremony really was almost in a cratered dirt lot...) and couldn't edit/upload/post until now

**Ch 19 - Dany**

She was glad for the light of Jon's sword. The maze of passages that had led here were broken by forks and small alcoves, each one dark save for a single, lonely torch that stood sentry in each of the large rooms and punctuated the longer halls.

After seeing how barren the land was from above, and how necessary fire was to their survival, Dany couldn't slight them for conserving resources. The space around her suddenly opened up above her, expanding to one of the largest rooms Dany had encountered. The dimly flickering torchlight revealed piles of clothing and armaments. This was how the army equipped themselves to survive the bitter cold of both the weather and their enemy.

Though Tormund's cloak had been warm, Dany felt incredibly small and awkward in it. She kept shifting it and adjusting the dragging hemline, and Jon must have noticed. He paused in their journey, sifting through the piles of furs, some mustier than others, before settling on something that could be considered her size.

They were a bit roomy and Dany felt strange in them, but it had been a very long time since she had worn clothing that had not been custom tailored for her specifically, so perhaps that would explain it. Jon unearthed a handful of leather lacing from the mound of hides and helped her to wrap it in crossing spirals around her calves and forearms.

This helped immensely, and Dany soon became comfortable as the soft fur and hide warmed and conformed to her body. The ever present cold diminished to something that could be forgotten, and she found herself reasonably calm, considering the events of the past few hours, and able to focus properly.

"You said there was dinner?" Dany suddenly remembered.

Jon let out a short laugh. "I see the cold and the wights have done nothing to distract you from your priorities, Daenerys. Just a little longer and I can show you our meeting hall."

One more passage, and she could hear voices echoing from a long way off. There was an amber glow ahead of them, faint at first, but growing stronger as they travelled closer.

As Dany stepped into the large antechamber, she had to wonder who had made the spacious cavern, and what had befell them to leave such a subterranean palace unoccupied. The ceiling was a blend of rock and stone, shored strategically with stout looking timbers that, despite the decades of risen ash and smoke that colored them, still appeared as sturdy as the day they were raised.

A single flue was cut into the center, faint stars visible beyond the etched stones that made up the rim of the portal. It would allow heat and smoke to escape, she knew, as well as fresh air to drift down and keep the many bodies gathered within from suffocation.

It was clever, and clever people usually stayed to defend their home, she made a note to ask Jon what had happened here. The cheerful voices around her made her decide to ask the question later. These people had had enough loss and hardship for one day, retelling the story of those that fled or died here would put a damper on even the brightest of moods.

There was a loud guffaw over to one side, louder than the rest, followed by the sound of a large fist banging on a table.

Dany looked over immediately, recognizing the large, bearded owner of her borrowed cloak.

"Tormund seems to have saved us a seat, at least." Jon said, before she felt a light, courteous touch on her elbow that started them down towards the table on the path with the least obstacles.

Jon went around the table, providing introductions.

"This is my brother Bran." A small boy looked back at her through a shaggy mop of unkempt hair.

"The large man standing behind him is our friend Hodor, who used to be a stable boy in Winterfell."

"Hodor!" He beamed.

"These are the Reeds, Meera and Jojen, their House is one my father trusted a great deal."

Both of them had unsettling green eyes. Meera's scanned over her, analyzing her with a look that would have intimidated anyone who hadn't stared down a dragon. The boy Jojen looked at her with impossible recognition, as if he had just seen her the past week and she had returned to visit. His eyes were a brighter green. It was a shade she had never seen before, not even amongst the mix of cultures that populated the east.

Seated beside them was a gruff man dressed in all black leather and fur, he saluted her with his mug before drinking deeply from it.

"That is Cotter Pyke," Jon told her, "Lord Commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the leader of the first expedition of the Night's Watch to try and save the people here."

He grunted an acknowledgement but then went back to his mug, pulling deep draughts of ale. Dany had the feeling that the initial group that travelled here had been caught unawares in regards to the horrors that hid in the woods and snow around them. She felt a great sympathy for this man, leading men armed with no more than forged steel and torches against a horde of the frozen undead, with every man lost becoming yet another enemy. It was a harrowing thought.

"And this-," Jon said, before realizing there was another empty seat on the bench.

"Is the Lady Melisandre." Said a cultured voice behind her.

Dany spun and came face to face with the Red Woman. She was indeed red, the title did not lie; her hair, her clothing, even her eyes were a queer shade of burnished crimson.

"Face to face, we stand now," she said, "and I meet the other half of the coin."

"...it's a pleasure to meet you." Dany said, not sure what protocol was necessary when you were trying to be polite and your conversationalist had eclipsed any personal space you might have had whilst spouting metaphorical portents. "Who was the first half of the coin, if I am the other?" She asked carefully.

"Why, Lord Snow, of course." A flourish of her long, flowing sleeve punctuated the comment before she breezed past them to take a seat. The steam rising off her mug trailed after her and filled the air with an aroma of spices that seemed almost familiar to Dany, though she couldn't quite place them.

A slow, drawn out tonal noise filled the air, and it took Dany a moment to figure out that it was language.

"The Oldfather says that he...holds all the familiars? No, that's not it." She watched as Jon's brother mouthed the words to himself. "Oh right, he welcomes all those that were promised." Bran called out.

Dany looked toward the source of the earlier noise and saw the creature, or man, or whatever it was that had been astride the white herd animal earlier.

She thought for a moment before calling back, "I greet him gladly and am pleased to be so welcomed."

Bran translated the words back to him in fits and starts. He must have gotten the gist of it though, because he tapped his mug on the table twice before raising it in Dany's direction with a smile. Doing so displayed bright, pointed teeth that made her more than a little uneasy, despite his warm greeting.

Nonetheless, Dany managed to grimace out a smile in return as she sat down in the space between Tormund and Melisandre. Jon joined her soon after, settling in close next to the Red Woman. He placed a steaming bowl of stew in front of her before setting down his own. As Dany looked around for a spoon, a platter of pale steaming objects were passed her way. Jon took one and bit into it, chewing contentedly.

"These are...?" She asked aloud, waiting for someone to inform her.

Jon looked like he was trying to speak, but was hindered by the food in question. Instead of speaking he handed her a carved wooden spoon, and Melisandre stepped in for him.

"They are root vegetables that grow throughout the roof and walls of this cave system." She told Dany. "Without them, the refugees turned fighter would not have survived for as long as they have."

"She's right." Jon agreed, after hastily swallowing the tuber in question. "The Oldfather and his people brought meat and other desperately needed supplies, but that was only recently." He held one up to the flickering torchlight. "These sustained us through the bitter beginning, and kept us from resorting to much less..." Jon paused, searching for a word, "civilized forms of survival."

"What he means to say is these little buggers kept us from eatin' each other once our food ran out." Tormund said bluntly. Dany almost dropped her spoon, in times of hardship the Dothraki would sacrifice and eat their mounts, but never other members of the tribe, or even the prisoners they took.

She stared at the bowl in front of her, suddenly queasy as she regarded chunks of meat floating in a thick, brown broth. What she was thinking was ridiculous, there was no way that the fallen dead could be made into food for the masses. The men and women that fell rose again to fight for the enemy far too quickly, and those that did she burned to less than nothing. That calmed her, as well as Tormund slurping from the side of his bowl before tipping down an amount of ale so large that Dany wasn't certain that any liquid remained in his cup. He had mentioned that the starchy vegetables had  _kept_  them from eating each other, hadn't he?

Dany decided she still needed a few minutes to goad herself into eating the nameless stew and instead pulled a tuber from the pile. She took a bite and chewed, it was sweet and nutty with a slight crunch to it. For a root found embedded deep underground it was certainly palatable. She finished chewing and swallowed, deciding to ignore the stew some more.

"It has been said that the Stark line was extinguished." Dany said loudly, attempting to change the subject from cannibalism. "How is it that I come to sup with two of Lord Eddard Stark's children, when all reports state that none survived?"

"Because Jojen is a clever greendreamer and Melisandre is...Melisandre." Explained Bran, which didn't help to enlighten Dany in the slightest.

"A greendreamer is what the crannogmen, my people, call someone who has dreams of things to come." Meera explained, before Bran let loose a stream of words explaining his time as master of Winterfell. He talked about Jojen's visions, which were nonsensical in the beginning, but became all too real once Theon Greyjoy decided to seize power as the prince of the Ironborn. Meera would add in details any time Bran had to pause in an attempt to clarify something or finish a portion of his supper. Together, the two told the story flawlessly, like a pair of mummers that had worked alongside one another for years.

While Meera revealed how they had hidden in the crypt until they felt brave enough to uncover a burnt out Winterfell, Bran reached for the steaming pitcher of heated snowmelt that sat in the center of the table. Dany noticed that his fingertips just grazed the handle, but before he could change positions and try again, Meera had grabbed it for him and started to tip it over his cup. While she focused on the task at hand, Bran spoke up about their daring escape into the woods, heading north and finally finding a passage through Night Fort. Bran steadied the pitcher and his mug while she poured out a generous amount before returning the pitcher to its original place on the table. All this was done without either of them missing a word or stumbling through a sentence. It was a graceful dance of hands and arms so fluid and natural that Dany found it quite impressive. More so because it seemed entirely unconscious on both their parts.

"Did you ever find out who the Brother that helped you was?" She asked them, finally succumbing to the steaming bowl in front of her. Her fear had been misplaced. The stew tasted incredible, though rather than believing it was a tantalizing mix of spices, Dany wondered if it might have been due to the fact that she hadn't eaten for a number of hours and it was freezing cold outside.

"He said his name was Sam." Meera said through a mouthful of food, everyone seemed to be eating in earnest now, Dany included.

"Samwell Tarly," Bran clarified, "and Jon told us that he sent him to Oldtown to become a Maester. A ship from the Wall all the way to Oldtown, that must have taken forever."

"It was necessary at the time." Jon said brusquely.

"How did you survive once you made it north of the Wall?" Dany asked, and watched as Bran's eyes slid towards the Oldfather.

"That's a story for perhaps another time." He said, dismissing the question.

By the time everything had fallen apart in Meereen, Dany had considered herself well on her way to mastering diplomacy at the dinner table, and Bran's actions had telegraphed exactly that. She left that question alone for now, wondering if Bran's adventures beyond the boundaries of Westeros involved the Oldfather's people specifically or if there were others like him.

"Did no one else escape as you and Jon did?" She asked instead.

Bran took a breath, as if he were tensing for a blow, before letting it out in a slow exhale as he spoke. "The Oldfather has answered some of my questions, but I only know so much of the True Tongue. I have not been able to decipher if Rickon and his escort, Osha, ever made it to Skagos. Robb was lost to the war alongside our mother and after our father's...execution," Bran spat the word distastefully, "both our sisters became casualties of the brutality that rules over King's Landing."

 _Perhaps only one of your sisters._ Dany amended, before the red woman spoke her thoughts aloud in eerie coincidence.

"What of the lone girl riding hard to the North?" Melisandre asked, between very small sips from her wooden mug. "I have seen it in the flames, more than once, and a raven bearing news of your lost sister arrived at Castle Black even before the treason occurred."

 _The treason._ She had felt Jon twitch beside her at the mention of the word. Could that be the cause of his pyre?

Dany noticed the red woman's plate of food was mostly untouched and found it odd, considering the rest of the encampment was either halfway through their first portion or leaving to grab a second. She herself was almost scraping the bottom and found the warm stew so enjoyable despite her initial misgivings that she barely resisted the urge to break her queenly decorum and lick the bowl.

"Whoever the newly legitimized, false Lord of Winterfell proclaims he's marrying, it's not Arya." Bran said. "I saw them through the heart tree during the ceremony."

"At least they kept that tradition." Jon mumbled beside her, the volume of his voice was muffled by stew, but not the caustic undertone.

"Do you know who she really is?" Meera asked.

Bran shook his head. "She looked familiar, but I couldn't place her. It would seem that Jon and I are the only Starks left."

Dany looked between the two of them, Bran looked nothing at all like his half brother or sister. Where she had come to understand the Stark meant dark locks and eyes like a coming storm, his hair was reddish brown, and when he looked at her she caught pools of blue, clear and bright as the eastern seas.

 _He must take after his mother, s_ he decided, before wondering if she should tell them about their missing sister.  _Why yes, she's alive, I left her pinned to the wall with a dagger in her palm after attempting to bed her when I thought she was a eunuch._ Dany winced when she considered the questions that would follow.

"What my kind brother meant to say was that  _he_ is the only Stark left." Jon said, relieving Dany of her quandary. His voice sounded tired and she wondered how often they had this disagreement.

"If you had just taken Stannis' offer-" Bran started, but Jon cut him off before he could get fully riled.

"If I had taken Stannis' offer I never would have gotten your message at the heart tree and you and Meera and Jojen would all be dead." He said with finality. "Getting my brother back is worth staying a Snow in my book."

It seemed the boy would not be so easily swayed by this argument, he marshaled himself again.

"Our father-" He only got two words out before a well placed elbow in the ribs from his dinner companion set him furiously blushing. "Nevermind." He squeaked, his voice cracking with the telltale signs of impending manhood.

This seemed to appease Jon, who went back to his stew, but for Dany it drew her attention like a lit bonfire. It was something that she herself had done when Viserys was still alive. Dany would catch herself, scant moments before she said something that would 'wake the dragon,' and instead dismiss the argument entirely. She had blushed that same way too, she remembered, but Dany barely knew Bran, did she have the right to meddle in their affairs?

A sinking sensation overtook her as she realized that it had already happened. She might as well add Bran's ire to the guilt she already carried over concealing Arya from them. As much as Viserys hated whatever it was she would have said to him, it was always true, and she clung to that slim hope as she pressed forward.

"What were you about to say, Bran?" She inquired politely, and watched as all the color drained from the boy's face. "I'd like to hear it."

"I...I-" He stuttered, before Meera smoothly took over for him.

"What my good friend meant to say is that perhaps I should preface his statement with a story, and by the time I am finished he will have ordered his words and can speak further on the matter."

"Yes." Bran said quickly, visibly relieved. "That is precisely what I meant, please do that now."

Meera took a breath and then launched into her introduction.

"Once there was a curious lad who lived in the Neck. He was small like all crannogmen, but brave and smart and strong as well. He grew up hunting and fishing and climbing trees, and learned all the magics of my people. He could breathe mud and run on leaves, and change earth to water and back again with no more than a whispered word. He could talk to trees and weave words and make castles appear and disappear. The lad knew the magics of the crannogs," she continued, "but he wanted more. Our people seldom travel far from home, you know. We're a small folk, and our ways seem queer to some, so the big people do not always treat us kindly. But this lad was bolder than most, and one day when he had grown to manhood he decided he would leave the crannogs and visit the Isle of Faces."

"All that winter the crannogman stayed on the isle, but when the spring broke he heard the wide world calling and knew the time had come to leave. His skin boat was just where he'd left it, so he said his farewells and paddled off toward shore. He rowed and rowed, and finally saw the distant towers of a castle rising beside the lake. The towers reached ever higher as he neared shore, until he realized that this must be the greatest castle in all the world."

"Which castle was it?" Dany asked.

"We believe it was Harrenhal, Queen Daenerys." Meera said, taking a breath and a sip from her mug before continuing.

"Beneath its walls he saw tents of many colors, bright banners cracking in the wind, and knights in mail and plate on barded horses. He smelled roasting meats, and heard the sound of laughter and the blare of heralds' trumpets. A great tourney was about to commence, and champions from all over the land had come to contest it. The king himself was there, with his son the dragon prince."

"My brother." Dany said softly, not needing the tale teller's confirmation.

"The White Swords had come, to welcome a new brother to their ranks. The storm lord was on hand, and the rose lord as well. The great lion of the rock had quarreled with the king and stayed away, but many of his bannermen and knights attended all the same."

"That's what I don't understand about you kneelers." Tormund complained. "You paint a wee pretty picture on a scrap of cloth and suddenly you're roses or lions or wolves or owls or what have you. Doesn't make much sense to me, nor the rest 'o the free folk."

"It is how we mark who attended these events, Tormund." Bran explained, "We know from those animals that Robert Baratheon, and Mace Tyrell were there as the storm lord and the rose lord. We also know that Tywin Lannister fought with the king over something so important he left the tourney, and possibly even his position as Hand."

"Where did you learn all that?" Dany asked.

"Maester Luwin used to make me memorize all the words and sigils of the Houses, he had a very large book that I could barely lift that listed them all with their family trees."

"It seems the lessons stuck," she commented, "but I think you would rather have been out playing instead of inside studying."

He rewarded her with a slight but embarrassed smile before Meera continued.

"The crannogman had never seen such pageantry, and knew he might never see the like again. Part of him wanted nothing so much as to be part of it. He was walking across the field, enjoying the warm spring day and harming none, when he was set upon by three squires."

"They were none older than fifteen, yet even so they were bigger than him, all three. This was their world, as they saw it, and he had no right to be there. They snatched away his spear and knocked him to the ground, cursing him for a frogeater."

"Frogs are delicious, by the way," Bran interjected, slurping his stew, "at least the ones Meera makes."

The girl in question blushed at the praise, but valiantly kept at her story. "None offered a name, but he marked their faces well so he could revenge himself upon them later. They shoved him down every time he tried to rise, and kicked him when he curled up on the ground. But then they heard a roar. 'That's my father's man you're kicking,' howled the she-wolf."

"Who was the Stark girl?" Dany asked, but feared that she already knew the answer. If her eldest brother had been involved, it could only be one person.

"My aunt Lyanna." Blurted Bran, he looked like he wanted to say more, but a glare from Meera silenced him. "It's about to get good." He whispered loudly to her.

"The she-wolf laid into the squires with a tourney sword, scattering them all. The crannogman was bruised and bloodied, so she took him back to her lair to clean his cuts and bind them up with linen. There he met her pack brothers: the wild wolf who led them, the quiet wolf beside him, and the pup who was youngest of the four.

"That evening there was to be a feast in Harrenhal, to mark the opening of the tourney, and the she-wolf insisted that the lad attend. He was of high birth, with as much a right to a place on the bench as any other man. She was not easy to refuse, this wolf maid, so he let the young pup find him garb suitable to a king's feast, and went up to the great castle.

"Under Harren's roof he ate and drank with the wolves, and many of their sworn swords besides, barrowdown men and moose and bears and mermen. The dragon prince sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle, but when her pup brother teased her for crying she poured wine over his head. A black brother spoke, asking the knights to join the Night's Watch. The storm lord drank down the knight of skulls and kisses in a wine-cup war. The crannogman saw a maid with laughing purple eyes dance with a white sword, a red snake, and the lord of griffins, and lastly with the quiet wolf . . . but only after the wild wolf spoke to her on behalf of a brother too shy to leave his bench.

"Amidst all this merriment, the little crannogman spied the three squires who'd attacked him. One served a pitchfork knight, one a porcupine, while the last attended a knight with two towers on his surcoat, a sigil all crannogmen know well."

"The Freys." Jon spat bitterly. "The lying, scheming Freys."

"Now, and as they always were," she agreed. "The wolf maid saw them too, and pointed them out to her brothers. 'I could find you a horse, and some armor that might fit,' the pup offered. The little crannogman thanked him, but gave no answer. His heart was torn. Crannogmen are smaller than most, but just as proud. The lad was no knight, no more than any of his people. We sit a boat more often than a horse, and our hands are made for oars, not lances. Much as he wished to have his vengeance, he feared he would only make a fool of himself and shame his people. The quiet wolf had offered the little crannogman a place in his tent that night, but before he slept he knelt on the lakeshore, looking across the water to where the Isle of Faces would be, and said a prayer to the old gods of north and Neck."

"All four sons of Harrenhal were defeated on the first day of the tourney. Their conquerors reigned briefly as champions, until they were vanquished in turn. As it happened, the end of the first day saw the porcupine knight win a place among the champions, and on the morning of the second day the pitchfork knight and the knight of the two towers were victorious as well. But late on the afternoon of that second day, as the shadows grew long, a mystery knight appeared in the lists."

"We know the other participants in this tale, but who is the newcomer?" Asked Dany.

"No one knew," said Meera, "but the mystery knight was short of stature, and clad in ill-fitting armor made up of bits and pieces. The device upon his shield was a heart tree of the old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face."

"Now there's a man with some sense." Tormund declared. "A weirwood instead of some prancing pony or porcuwhatsit."

"Por-cu-pine, Tormund." Meera said tolerantly. "The mystery knight dipped his lance before the king and rode to the end of the lists, where the five champions had their pavilions. Of the five he confronted the porcupine knight, the pitchfork knight, and the knight of the twin towers."

"All the knights whose squires wronged the crannogman." Though the story was meant for younger audiences, Dany found herself caught in this little slice of history that included the brother she never knew.

"Whoever he was, the old gods gave strength to his arm. The porcupine knight fell first, then the pitchfork knight, and lastly the knight of the two towers. None were well loved, so the common folk cheered lustily for the Knight of the Laughing Tree, as the new champion soon was called. When his fallen foes sought to ransom horse and armor, the Knight of the Laughing Tree spoke in a booming voice through his helm, saying, 'Teach your squires honor, that shall be ransom enough.' Once the defeated knights chastised their squires sharply, their horses and armor were returned. And so the little crannogman's prayer was answered...by the green men, or the old gods, or the children of the forest, who can say?"

"What is the point of this story?" Jon asked. "To inform young crannogmen that if you have faith in the old gods they ride out and win tourneys for you?"

"No," said Meera. "The next morning, when the heralds blew their trumpets and the king took his seat, only two champions appeared. The Knight of the Laughing Tree had vanished. The king was wroth, and even sent his son the dragon prince to seek the man, but all they ever found was his painted shield, hanging abandoned in a tree. It was the dragon prince who won that tourney in the end."

"So the gods leave you alone when you need them most, and the monarchy wins after all. What a fine tale." Jon snorted, clearly upset.

"Don't you want to know who the dragon prince crowned as the queen of love and beauty, Jon?" Bran said, his voice hopeful.

"Fine," Jon sighed, before continuing in a bored tone. "Tell me Meera, who did prince Rhaegar choose as his queen of love and beauty, was it his lady wife the princess?"

"No," Meera said sharply, "he crowned your mother."


	21. Ch 20 - The Prisoner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Chapter 20 - The Prisoner**

It hadn't taken them long to subdue her. Daenerys had rushed out the door, leaving her rent and bleeding from not one but two grievous injuries. The hand, well, the hand would heal, eventually; it was the slashing cut through her soul that would not mend so easily. She flexed the bandaged appendage experimentally, it hurt, like few things did in this world, but it seemed that her queen had missed the delicate bones and tendons that she had spent so many years honing to precision.

_Her queen._ She had to laugh at that, as if this woman wanted her fealty more than a traitor's blood staining the planks of the  _Honorro._ No, there would be no fighting her way out of this one; she had made that decision when the Unsullied had rushed in.

It had been a deliberate misstep, she was left handed where swordplay was concerned, and it was her right that lay pinned to the rough wooden planking that made up the walls. Holding the door to that tiny cabin with her left hand and a dueling saber would have been child's play. She had fought without an arm, without legs, without eyes, and without ears. They had taken it all away from her, one element at a time, and then given her No One's limbs and senses in exchange.

There was one thing that remained untouched throughout her training in the House of Black and White, and it was that one hidden facet that Daenerys had teased out of her, only to leave it mangled on the floor alongside the fallen buttons from her shirt.

She didn't have a name for this feeling, this spark of her very essence, but it was deep, so deep that it bedded down alongside loyalty, an aspect which she held above all others.

Or had, anyway. Her latest actions had been anything but loyal to the Faceless Men. Cressio's instructions had been very clear, and she had ignored them for no reason that she herself, or even the trailing thoughts of fading eunuch, could fathom.

Her dark brows furrowed in consternation as she recalled Tyrion's words upon recognizing her.

\--  
  
When she refused to fight, the Unsullied had relieved her of her sword belt before yanking her dagger out of the wall. It took the muscled soldier two tries to pry it loose, Daenerys had struck true. She was roughly grabbed and thrown down in front of the dwarf, she heard bodies moving and felt the telltale pinpricks of spears encircle her throat.

"Years may pass, but I never forget a face." Tyrion said plainly, dispensing with his attempts at Valyrian. "You're the missing Stark girl."

It hadn't been a question, so she said nothing.

Missandei, Daenerys' handmaiden, had been only a few paces behind him and started to translate, but he held up a hand. "She understood me perfectly."

He looked at her, examining her as one would a small insect under glass.

"You ran away, halfway across the world, and hid your face the best way you could think of," he chuckled, "as a Faceless Man." His eyes widened as he realized the implications of this.

"These bank notes you have been writing, were they commissioned by the Iron Bank, or was that merely a ploy to get close to the queen?"

"They're real." The girl hissed, steeling herself into immobility against the spear heads.

"And that missive, the one with the blank red seal, tell me now, since we're feeling honest, what was truly writ upon it?"

She gritted her teeth in silence. Tyrion gave a Valyrian command,  _pressure,_  and she felt the razor sharp tips of a dozen points sink into the flesh at her throat.

"It's no use pretending loyalty." He said to her. "You know as well as I that what happened in that cabin was nothing short of high treason."

"I had only-" She started in outrage, before silencing herself as she felt droplets, warm and thick, slide down her neck in the cool salt air.

_Calm as still water._  A voice resonated deep within her.

"If you would let me finish." He chastised her. "I would inform you that the party wronged is not actually our Targaryen queen, but the Faceless Men. Clever as they were to place an agent of their own in a place where they could snuff out an entire monarchy in the blink of an eye, they overlooked the obvious."

She waited for him to continue, but he seemed to be waiting for her to ask instead. He waved his hand and the shining points backed off ever so slightly.

"Which is?" She asked gruffly, resisting the urge to wipe the blood away as the droplets sank down even further.

"Love." He informed her, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

_Love._ She snorted derisively.  _That_   _was his answer?_

"Love." He repeated. "Though you wouldn't think it, I am quite an expert on the matter. From what I know of you, what I know of Daenerys, and what I know of the contracts put out by the Faceless Men, it would have to be love, and love alone, that managed to stay your hand after you had clear orders in your missive, am I correct in this line of thought?"

She had failed Cressio's mission, and the penalty for that was clear. If you were unable to serve, there was only one other fate remaining.

"You are correct in that I disobeyed orders." She told him, as for the rest of his speech...was  _that_  the feeling that writhed within her?

"One more chance." Tyrion said. "Tell me your orders and I will do my best to spare your life." He looked thoughtful, his mind churning with plans of what could be. He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "If I can get you through this, Arya, because you  _are_ Arya, Westeros is in for quite the surprise."

He was not talking to No One, the Faceless Man, nor Cressio, it was the Stark girl he wanted.

Arya Stark, the wild daughter of Winterfell, half a boy and half a wolf and more than a handful to anyone who had tried to tell her otherwise. The name she had discarded as a child in order to survive could now be the only thing that would keep her alive.

Was that what she wanted, to live, to continue this struggle against adversity, especially after news of her failure reached the House of Black and White, and to live as Arya? She had spent so long burying that identity that it was now almost foreign to her.

There was a sudden memory of a fierce, proud alpha wolf, running with her pack through the forest.

No, not foreign, if she was being honest with herself. The direwolf had never left her. In her dreams, night after night, face after face, mission after mission, Nymeria remained. They could mold her waking self, her consciousness, but they could never take the wolf.

Tyrion seemed to know what extreme measures keeping her alive would take, and here he was, offering his services.

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

"If the dragons are tamed," she said softly, "you must give the queen the Gift."

Instead of the shock of surprise that she saw on Missandei, since she had spoken in Common, Tyrion only looked thoughtful. It seemed that, as opposed to giving him an unexpected turn, she had simply handed him the final piece to a puzzle he had been assembling.

"So", he said, after letting her statement settle, "that's their game, is it?"

He looked at her again and Arya, because she was becoming a Stark whether she liked it or not, stared back coolly. She tried not to be unnerved by the strange black eye of his that seemed to see right through deception.

"Wait below decks," he told her, "when the queen returns, we will begin the second part of my plan. You know better than to attempt something so foolish as escape, even though we both know mere bars could never hold you."

He stepped back from her and raised his voice, speaking to the Unsullied in stilted Valyrian. " _Take her underground and lock her up, no use for guard, escape and death are one for she."_

The Unsullied looked a bit puzzled, but the spearheads dropped and they obeyed.

\--

So here she was, crammed in next to a couple barrels of salted fish and seated atop a half keg of drinking water. The hold had been overstuffed with items. Daenerys' army would need provisions once they reached Westeros in addition to enough food and water to survive the sea voyage. The bank notes of Cressio Menaris that had bought them supplies to begin with, though still valid with the phrase they had given her, might not get supplies from a hostile Westeros, no matter how much gold they represented.

Tyrion had been right, of course, she could break out quite easily, but what use would that be? Where would she go, overboard in the middle of a winter sea? For she believed it was well and truly winter based on the storms and massive waves that hit them every few days. They struck hard and fast, threatening to snatch the very timbers of the ship out from under them before leaving nothing save the final plunge into the icy depths of the ocean.

No, she would not be running.

Raised voices bled through the planks above her, speaking Common. She could make out Tyrion's poised queries and-

Yes, there it was, Daenerys was trying to get some point across, and she was furious by the sound of it.

She had already known the queen had returned, regardless of the argument happening right on top of her. Drogon landing on the deck tipped them so suddenly that it could have only been a dragon. Nothing else felt quite like several dozen aurochs worth of muscle being dropped out of the sky.

Her ears perked at the slow creak of the heavy wooden door atop the stairs. Tyrion had withheld a lamp from her, spouting nonsense about the dangers of a fire in the hold. That had been fine by her, darkness was an old friend by now, and it was this friend that granted her a heightened picture of her new visitor.

She closed her eyes and focused on the soft, unsteady footfalls that found their way down the stairs. They were softer than the stolid tread of the Unsullied, and slower than Tyrion's shuffling gait. A woman's steps, she decided, and they were not quite as soft as Missandei's, since a queen had little reason to tiptoe. She was alone, so perhaps Tyrion had taken the brunt of her rage and the Dragon Queen would not yet demand her life.

Address her now, or wait?

The steps paused, and it left Arya wondering. The Targaryen queen had been nothing but forceful attitude a few minutes prior. She was fairly certain that this visit would end with a slap at the very least, and an order for execution at the worst, but hesitation, that was something she hadn't accounted for.

She took a different tact, carefully sniffing the air for the sharp scent of fear. It wasn't the emotion she was looking for, it was the body's signs of it, which were, unfortunately, much easier to detect on men who hadn't bathed in a few cycles of the moon.

Daenerys was absolutely the furthest thing from a rank, unwashed male. The scent that she did manage to catch, besides the overpowering aroma of salted cockles, was unfamiliar at first. It was something that reminded her of Arya's childhood, of Winterfell. It tickled her nose and she resisted the urge to sneeze.

Ah yes, musty old furs. It was the same smell she encountered every time her mother had made her wear the lined jerkin or her snow cloak. Odd that. They were in the middle of the Narrow Sea, or perhaps the Shivering if they had drifted off course in that last storm. How could Daenerys have gotten furs that smelled of the North? How far had she flown?

Her questions stopped abruptly when she detected another scent, one she was far too experienced with.

It was blood.

* * *

Daenerys held the lamp aloft in her left hand, carefully pressing her right shoulder against the wall and trying her best not to jar her recently stitched and bandaged forearm.

\--

She had followed Jon out of the dining area after he had gotten into a shouting match with Bran and Meera about whether or not they should have told him sooner.

Bran had said something about not having all the pieces of the puzzle, and Meera backed him, stating that he wouldn't have cared before he could see the proof in his own looking glass. Both of them were probably right, but Jon was still coasting on exhaustion and the leftover nervous energy they all carried after fighting the wights.

He hadn't wanted to talk, but she, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Stormborn, decided that those preferences didn't apply to her. Dany had followed him out of the latticed network of tunnels and into the frigid cold. She had let out a surprised gasp of shock at the temperature change, terribly thankful for her borrowed clothing. The gasp frosted into a cloud of ice crystals, and Dany watched in horrified fascination as it dissipated into the night air.

Jon had stopped for a moment, seemingly immune to the chill. He was instead looking up into the inky blackness that surrounded them. Her gaze traced his and she could see the faint stars that managed to glint down through the mist and the trees.

"I always thought she had abandoned me." The words were soft, colored with a wretched melancholy. "Never had I dreamt..." He trailed off, uncertain.

"That your mother's disappearance, planned or unwilling, would spark a rebellion that changed the course of history?"

She hadn't known what to think either. Had Lyanna Stark actually run away with her brother and just not told anyone? It seemed incredibly foolhardy in hindsight, but with Meera's story as a backdrop, Dany understood that when it came to practical matters, sometimes young lovers could be idiots.

"Never," he made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob, "bastard boys always dream of finding out their missing parent was someone important, but this..." He moved his hands through the air, as though painting the image would excuse him from speaking it aloud.

"Jon, you don't-"

There was a sudden blur of motion and she had only had a moment to put her arms up before it became very cold very quickly and she was knocked bodily into a snowbank. Dany felt like a merchant wagon had just hit her, and struggled to catch her breath. She tried to cope with the sudden attack, and that was when she felt the pain. Searing daggers pierced deep across the length of her arm, and there was a hideous, gut wrenching growl that terrified her to down to her very marrow in a way that even the loudest dragon's roar never could.

She was going to die here, she realized, miles beyond the borders of her birthright, and she would never even know what caused it.

She heard Jon's voice penetrate the din. "Summer! Take her down!"

_Wolves._ Dany's eyes narrowed as she grimaced against the onslaught. Had this been a trap all along? If it was, she had fallen right into it. Sympathetic auntie was a new role for her, but Jon had played the sad bastard nephew so perfectly that she had actually believed him.

"Ghost, to me!"

There was another thump, and she knew that one small Targaryen queen, fierce though she may be, was no match against two huge dire wolves. She kept still, a monumentally difficult task as she felt the jagged points in her arm grate across bone. If she pretended to be dead long enough, the wolves might lose interest and return to their master.

Suddenly the pain, and the pressure, and the stifling darkness vanished. Dany blinked, her eyes adjusted to the dim light emanating from Jon's drawn sword, he was advancing on-

_Wait._  He wasn't coming for her, he was instead shouting commands to two wolves, which were grappling and biting a third one that was larger than the both of them combined. It was bigger than a cart horse, more massive than an aurochs, the only creature she had seen that was even close to that size had been her dragons.

"Nymeria, stop!" Jon pleaded, and Dany finally understood.

\--

"Your...Grace...are you hurt?" Called a hesitant voice from the darkness.

"A scratch." She called out the lie with false bravado, loud enough that she hoped to believe it herself, if only for a moment.

The skin was almost flayed to the bone. The bleeding had been uncontrollable and had required some strange applications of fire and hot brands from Melisandre, along with several lengths of gut stitched through before the wound became sluggish and clotted. It throbbed terribly, but at least the ragged skin had not blistered or charred. Sometimes being the Unburnt had its privileges, particularly when dealing with the priesthood of Red R'hllor and their fiery eccentricities.

Dany suddenly understood why the words had been hesitant. Cressio had always referred to her as "my queen," regardless of the language they were using. This new address caused a sharp pang of loss within her for reasons she didn't fully comprehend.

She kept her injured arm far from the wall, instead leaning her shoulder against it for balance while she held the lantern aloft in her good hand. Dany took careful, measured steps until she made it to the bottom of the stairs and looked around her, no wonder Tyrion had warned her against taking a guard compliment with her.

\--

"Summon Grey Worm's captains," she had ordered, "I am going to see the prisoner."

"I have been below decks, your grace, that will be neither necessary nor practical." Tyrion disagreed.

"Has everyone gone mad while I was away?" Dany asked, incredulous that Tyrion was flagrantly disobeying her direct command. "She is a fully trained disciple of the most skilled organization of assassins in the known world, and you haven't even posted a guard?"

"If the aforementioned assassin had wanted to escape," he informed her, "she would have, before proceeding to kill every last inhabitant aboard this ship, taking it for her own and sailing anywhere she pleased."

"But the Unsullied-" Dany argued.

"Every...Last...Inhabitant." He countered. "I had already included the Unsullied."

"Am I right in thinking that you want me to go down into the hold, alone, with one of the deadliest killers Essos has ever created?"

"That is the crux of the matter, yes." Tyrion agreed.

"What if I decide that I want her life as a repayment for the trespasses against me, will she still stand by so meekly when I demand her head?"

"I've no doubt she will do just that," said Tyrion. "I have talked with her and I believe that you, personally, are in no danger whatsoever from our prisoner."

"What is your proof?" Dany asked.

"I saw her shirt, your grace," he said quietly, "I am a worldly enough man to know that those buttons did not decide to fall off of their own accord..."

Dany felt the flushed heat rise up her face and neck. She had forgotten about that.

"But beyond that, do you know the other half of  _valar dohaeris_?" He asked.

"It's  _valar morghulis,"_ Dany said impatiently, trying to recover from her embarrassment. "What does that have to do with our current situation?"

"It has everything to do with it." Tyrion retorted. "In staying her hand, she has failed her mission and refused to serve the Faceless Men. By their own words, they have only one recourse remaining."

"Death." Dany breathed, beginning to grasp the powers afield.

He nodded. "By your order or their hand, and since I am a betting man, I would have worked the odds the same way she did. You may or may not kill her, with the Faceless Men comes an unequivocal end." Tyrion looked out across the expanse of ocean towards the east. "I have no doubt that once we land and word of your newly well behaved Drogon reaches Essos, we will have much deadlier trouble than your poor, pining Arya Stark waiting down in the hold."

His words held a sense of foreboding, and Dany tried to piece the reasons together. "Why would my dragons be part of the-did you say pining?"

Tyrion smiled at the sudden subject change. "You should ask her yourself, your grace, on both accounts."

\--

So here she was, trying her best not to bump into the dozens upon dozens of casks and barrels that were crammed into every nook and corner of the hold and playing hide and seek me with a caged assassin.

Dany took in their extensive inventory with a feeling of mild amazement. Was her army so vast that it really required this much food to function, or was this simply Tyrion being Lord Nursemaid? She wouldn't begrudge his caution, since they were sailing into the unknown and winter, where grown food would be impossible to come by.

Another strategy arose and she chastised herself for doubting her counselor. If they did end up with a surplus, she would be in a position to feed the starving and neglected populace that had been bled dry by not just one, but numerous wars. Her foreign, _Targaryen,_  soldiers would be the first military of any kind that gave more than they took, maintained order, and refrained from taking their pleasure in the wives and daughters of Westeros. It would be fealty earned without a single drop of blood spilt.

The ship wheeled and tilted around her, and she was swamped by a wave of vertigo. Dany squinted her eyes shut tightly, trying to will the feeling away.

She took a step forward, lightheaded and dizzy, stumbling as her foot caught in a loop of the thick rope the sailors used for rigging.

Dany splayed her arms out quickly, attempting to keep her balance and stop the fall. The ship lurched hard to one side and she was thrown into a cask of preserved food, driving spikes of pain deep into her arm and all the way up to her shoulder.

She flinched, reflexively, and it was then that Daenerys, Queen of the Andals and Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, fell to the floor with a graceless thud.

"Your grace?" Came the concerned question, floating up from the darkness.

She felt the lantern roll from her grasp and realized, in a far off kind of way, that it meant danger. The dimly lit hold darkened around her even further, and Dany tried to remember why it was important to get the lamp. She tried, again and again, each new attempt weaker than the last, until finally she gave up and succumbed to the warm embrace of oblivion.

* * *

 

She felt coolness on her face and tried to open her eyes. There was a light somewhere, floating in her vision as a soft and fuzzy ball. She blinked a few times, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

"Your 'scratch' has certainly lost you a lot of blood, your grace." Stormy grey eyes narrowed. "You should be resting, not traipsing around in the dark looking for captured assassins."

Dany was confused. "But you were..."

"Locked up? Indeed I was, but luckily for everyone else aboard who doesn't happen to be the Unburnt, mere iron bars cannot hold a Faceless Man and I was able to retrieve the lantern before something irreparable occurred."

Dany looked up and saw a fleeting ghost of a smile reflect the lamplight. Strangely, it reminded her of the playful asides she had shared with Cressio.

The familiarity gave her a small measure of peace and she relaxed against the knobbly surface below her. A quick glance and Dany recognized the coil of rope that had caused her fall to begin with. Her brow furrowed in consternation, how had she-

"I took the liberty of moving you someplace where I could better check your wounds." Arya explained, for Dany supposed this person before her  _was_  Arya, and no longer hid behind her other, borrowed identities.

"That 'scratch' of yours looks remarkably similar to a wolf bite, your grace. How far away did you need to fly to encounter  _wolves_?"

_As far as I needed to fly to forget you._

"Far," she muttered absently, and was reminded of the many, many things she still needed to accomplish in order to keep her goal a reality. "I am reminded," Dany tried to focus, but she was so very tired, "how well do you sail?"

"Sail?" Eyes the color of fog at twilight widened in surprise. "Has the captain somehow...displeased you?"

"No..I need a special...crew of sailors..." Dany was trying her best to communicate her wishes, but her mind felt as fuzzy as the light had first looked. "Jon asked." She said finally. That would explain everything, she was sure of it.

"Daenerys," her voice was warm, concerned, Dany decided that she liked it when she said her name. "You're not making any-"

Arya abruptly stopped speaking. "There, you have it." Dany assured her, before shutting her eyes and smiling into the darkness, "Tyrion said you were clever."

The hands examining her stilled, and she took the opportunity to find the wrists beyond, clasping them gently.

"Jon's alive?" Arya asked, surprise and shock almost galvanizing her into action before she remembered her tender manacles and stilled, dropping her head to look at Dany once more. "You flew all the way to the Wall in the span of a few hours?" There was a note of awe in her voice.

"Further." Dany answered, still being vague. She was not yet ready for the intense, emotional confrontation that would follow a full explanation of her time beyond the Wall.

"If Jon needs sailors, then yes, I sail. I was apprenticed into a master by an ancient organization that dwells on a chain of islands. Barge or ferry or tiny skiff, it makes no difference, I uncovered all their secrets long before I was allowed to even touch a blade. I will depart at once." She was determined, her eyes were stony and resolute. This aspect of her, Dany understood, was the deadly, single minded part that was fully capable of felling any target given and overcoming every obstacle that stood in her way.

She rose to go, but Dany held fast.  _Every obstacle but one._ "How did you intend to leave then," Dany asked, just the tiniest hint of playfulness coming out, "were you going to mount Rhaegal, or swim?" She looked her up and down appraisingly. "You are dressed well," she let her eyes linger, overtly tracing some of her favorite lines, "but it is inappropriate for flight or water travel."

"I..."

"Tyrion is currently perfecting a device he has been working on that allows Drogon to carry six people below him, in an enclosure that harms neither him or my passengers. We will leave tomorrow."

"We're going to fly?" Arya asked, settling down and attempting a studied pose at nonchalance. The pretense failed once Dany saw the spark of excitement that set her eyes alight.

Hopefully her advisor could make do with the time he was allotted. She told Jon she would return in two days' time and she intended to keep her promise. Whatever happened once the Starks were reunited, would happen, but Tyrion thought he had a fairly good idea of where their former banker's loyalties lay, and he had proved to be an excellent judge of character when it came to both Cressio and Arya.

Her fears about an attack from her prisoner had been unfounded. Arya had been given every opportunity to harm her, and instead had been undeniably loyal and attentive. Perhaps, if you counted her previous actions as Cressio, more attentive than was entirely appropriate, but attentive nonetheless.

_But if you would prefer I swear upon something that is true, I swear it upon my belief in you, my queen._

Dany pulled her honorable assassin towards her, finding placement by touch alone.

"But your injuries-" Came the stern warning.

Which Dany promptly ignored, "If I am to take your advice in regards to healing, I believe there was also an order about resting, and it is that advice that I am following now."

"Surely you would rather-"

Dany shook her head. "I am fine right where I am." She stated with finality, and continued pulling her erstwhile healer into position until the protesting Stark complied, but not before dutifully dousing the lantern.

Above all else, the person beside her was dutiful. Her devotion was absolute when it came to realizing her ascent to the Iron Throne, but it was not the Breaker of Chains,  _Khaleesi_  of the Great Grass Sea, the Mother of Dragons nor Queen of the Andals that stood foremost in her heart and inspired such lengths. No, it was simply the woman herself, Daenerys of Braavos, the carefree girl who once lived in a little house with a red door and a lemon tree, and dreamed of finding things as simple as happiness, that wrought such feelings.

Dany nestled closer in absent pleasure, taking good advantage of the buttons she had removed earlier and pressing close to Arya's scarred and tautly muscled chest. The northerner stilled to stone, scarcely daring to breath. Under her ear, Dany detected the faint trip hammer of her heart beat as it sped up ever so slightly.

Dany usually followed Tyrion's advice, but she had to test his theories to be truly certain.

"Were you really pining?" Dany asked softly.

She stuttered slightly and Dany felt a wave of warmth flood the skin she was resting on, and beneath her, the gentle tempo quickened to an eager race.

"Daenerys," Arya said, her voice a bit strained and exasperated before it returned to its customary gruffness. "You should be sleeping."

Dany only smiled in response, knowing her answer regardless.

She breathed in the scent of her incredibly unlikely, but vastly appreciated sleeping partner. It was not so different from what she had become accustomed to. There was the mild base of leather, tinged with steel and sharpening oil from her blades. The weapons were so much a part of her that their traces remained long after they had been taken from her. Beneath that was the scent of the woman herself, which, Dany was relieved to notice, hadn't changed in the slightest. For masters of disguise, the Faceless Men didn't actually alter much about themselves. Other than his face, how much of Cressio had just been sheer illusion and acting?

She would ask, tomorrow. In return she would have to tell, and that would be difficult, but if she had learned anything in this life, it was that the more difficult the battle, the more worthy the prize.

As the gentle rhythms of the ship and Arya's breathing lulled her towards sleep, Dany's last thought was of her advisor.

Tyrion had been right, right about  _everything_ , but she would never,  _ever_ , tell him so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter was almost the death of me, my tablet crashed without syncing and I lost basically everything after "the priesthood of Red R'hllor and their fiery eccentricities." What was going to be "the game of questions" was lost and got rewritten a bit warmer and fuzzier. The harder questions that create the actual foundation of trust, and subsequently a relationship, will follow soon after. I have no intention of anyone just trusting their gut feelings and going from there, but I admit they certainly help bridge the gap made by a direwolf attack...


	22. Ch 21 - Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where No One decides to become Someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This...was an exceedingly difficult chapter to write on the tail end of creating an outline for the rest of this fic and two specific outlines for the chapters following this. I really had no intention of writing upwards of almost 7,000 words, but Arya had Things To Say, and wouldn't let me end the chapter until she was finished.
> 
> I guess I am also a chapter a month writer, which is not the worst, nor the best, but tends to be where I end up by the time I have produced a draft to completion.
> 
> Sidenote: There is a tiny Starkyd7 salute within this chapter, because she pulled me out of a most wretched vacuum of self doubt and for that I am eternally grateful.

The driving snow was cold, but the alpha had seen worse and lived to hunt another day. Her ears cocked, listening for the familiar sounds of her pack, of home, but only the frozen creak of loaded boughs and the occasional scratching of a restless squirrel broke the silence. She sat back on her haunches, giving a tentative lick to the ache that bled slowly down her front leg and crusted the thick fur that surrounded it.

She woke quickly, but, as was her habit, moved not a single muscle until she had taken stock of her surroundings. Her ears took the fore as the ship creaked and groaned around her in a regular rhythm, relief flowing through her as she realized that the worst of the storm had already passed them by.

She cracked an eye, slowly, and was rewarded with the same pitch darkness that surrounded them when she had doused the lantern before-

Before Daenerys Targaryen, Queen and Conqueror of Westeros, had swiftly drifted off to sleep, burrowed tightly against her chest. She opened the other eye, careful not to disrupt the pace of her breathing and wake her sleeping charge.

Arya waited until the tiny beams of light that bled through the minute cracks in the deck above them started to create shapes and forms around her. She took in the tousled white-blonde hair, now almost shoulder length, that curled behind her ears and managed to frame her delicate jaw in a way that always reminded Arya of the statues the Braavosi merchants pointed to when they explained "classic beauty" to the clients they were trying to impress. At the time, she hadn't thought that a lesson in art history brokered a better deal for the merchantmen, but here, in this dank hold, able to appreciate some of the finer things in life, she was glad she had eavesdropped.

Continuing her silent, half-seen examination, she cast a glance towards Daenerys' right forearm. Her hand cupped Arya's shoulder tightly, despite the injury and her queen's unconscious state. Even asleep, the Mother of Dragons emitted a fierceness that was impossible to overlook. It was, at least to her, one of her most endearing traits and possibly the reason the woman had fascinated her so to begin with.

She couldn't see the wounds in the dim light, but remembered them vividly from the night before. The spacing was broad, so much so that the deep gashes were worst near her wrist and elbow. Arya had never seen anything like it, not during her time in Winterfell, nor on her far flung and varied missions for the Faceless Men. She tried to imagine a creature large enough to inflict that kind of damage. Was she still certain that it had been a wolf? Daenerys hadn't mentioned what caused it, in fact, she had avoided the issue and changed the subject entirely.

Changed it to sailing, actually, and let her become so distracted by the information that her brother was still alive that she forgot to pursue her original inquiry. Had that been intentional? Did the queen think that the truth would affect her somehow?

Dark brows knit together in concentration as Arya puzzled out the facts set before her. Daenerys had gone north, up to and beyond the Wall. The other side of the Wall, where monsters and creatures from the old stories still dwelled. The direwolves that she and her siblings had come across when they were children had been a fluke, but beyond the Wall there may have been as many direwolves as there were packs in the Wolfswood that surrounded Winterfell.

_Packs._  There was something about the Targaryen queen's injury that made no sense. If she had encountered a pack of direwolves, how had she managed to escape, and escape with only one bite? Winter was upon them, and starving direwolves would have likewise fallen upon prey with the same thoroughness as an avalanche cresting down a mountainside.

Had the dragon saved her, had Jon? What had she been doing alone in the woods to begin wi-

Daenerys shifted and moaned in sleep, drawing in a sharp intake of breath afterwards that gave Arya an excruciatingly tangible reminder that she had made her bare chest into a pillow. She tried to recall what it was she had just been thinking about, but it was absolutely impossible to focus on anything other than the woman sprawled against her.

She exhaled slowly, settling her mind and her racing heart into the stillness that had been drilled into her for the last few years. The face may have emotions, and it was those they drew upon to help create a better illusion and performance, but for No One, such distractions were just that, and must be ignored. Another breath, her mind descending into the calming dark of nothingness, and she could feel her heart slow. The wave of sensation had crested and fallen, leaving her in a well of silent clarity once more.

Fingernails clawed and scrabbled at her throat, opening up the wounds she had been gifted by the tips of a dozen Unsullied spears. Her body reacted automatically, defending itself without thought. She clamped down on the attack before her mind caught up with her reflexes and she realized, belatedly, that her iron grip was wrapped around Daenerys' wounds.

The Targaryen screamed in pain, and No One let go, but not before the both of them had rolled off the bundle of rope and hit the floorboards below with a bang.

"Nymeria, stop!" Daenerys yelled herself into wakefulness and started to struggle in earnest.

_That_  had been why there was only one bite, there was only one direwolf, and it had been hers.

In her thrashing, Daenerys had somehow snagged a bit of the rope they had been laying on, unfurling the neat pile. To complicate matters, she had also twined her limbs around Arya's longer ones during the night. Extricating the both of them in the dark was proving difficult enough on its own, but the next to impossible once the braided loops joined the fray.

Arya tugged at the strands surrounding them, which only served to make matters worse. She needed a different tactic.

She tried to calm her, "Shhhhh, you're safe, I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Anyone, or any _thing_?" Daenerys spoke harshly, with an accusing tone that left not a single trace of the tenderness she had experienced the night before.

Arya scoured her mind for an explanation that would excuse her direwolf's actions, for a reason that could possibly explain why Nymeria had been both beyond the Wall and targeting the Targaryen. She came up empty handed, and the only sound between them was their joint and labored breathing. Arya searched her queen's face, hoping to find the answers somehow inscribed there.

What she read instead was fear, as Daenerys' eyes skittered back and forth in a futile attempt to track her in the darkness.

"Just calm down," Arya pleaded. "If you wait for a moment your eyes will adjust."

Daenerys stopped fighting and waited, and Arya let her head drop against the rough wooden planks as she felt the tension flow out of her like water through an open canal lock. She took a breath, and tasted the salty tang of sweat and blood.

_Blood._

"It was blood." She said finally. "That's why she went after you."

"There was no blood until  _after_  she attacked me." Daenerys reminded her.

Arya saw her head turn towards her, and the panic that had gripped her began to recede as her queen resumed her mantle of command.

"Not your blood," she clarified, "it was mine."

Confusion gave way to guilt as Daenerys understood. She looked away, most likely recalling why it was that she had left in the first place.

Arya detected a strange, uncomfortable feeling inside herself. She didn't like seeing Daenerys this way.

Actually getting stabbed had been much easier than watching her turmoil over the act. Pain was easier, cleaner; and she was used to ignoring it and moving forward. This other thing was much more difficult, and she had no idea how to get rid of it.

Arya rolled back slightly, enough to allow her bandaged hand to weave through their bindings. "It's really not that bad." She promised, waggling her unwrapped fingertips at Daenerys. "I think yours is actually worse."

That managed to surface a tiny smile, and she might have spoken, but instead the door to the hold flew open, blinding them both with a brilliant shaft of golden sunlight.

"It's dark as a tomb in here." Tyrion stated as he made his way down the stairs. "I trust no one has been made into a corpse over it? I did hear shouting."

"We are both quite alive, Lord Nursemaid." Daenerys called back, and Arya wasn't sure if his arrival gave her annoyance or relief.

The light from the lantern he carried bobbed erratically up and down as he carefully navigated the stairs with his too short legs.

"Now where in seven Hells have you-" he stopped abruptly when his feet kicked the length of rope that had yet to join the mass of cordage that surrounded them. The light from the lantern pooled on the floor, and she saw him look back and forth between the rope and their tangled bodies.

"You know." He said matter of factly, clearing his throat. "There are much softer ropes one can use for bedsports."

There was a silent moment of tension, and then the absolute ridiculousness of their position sank in and she felt an unfamiliar emotion bubble up from a place she had thought long dead. The laughter wracked her body convulsively, like cathartic sobbing, and she was helpless to stop it. Soon she heard Daenerys join her alongside Tyrion's sly snicker, and she lost herself in the simple, childish pleasure of it.

Arya exhaled, coming to a restive silence, and felt a tear that had collected in the corner of her eye. It was not something she herself was familiar with, but had heard the phrase enough times to understand what had happened. At least it was better than laughing so hard you pissed yourself, that was an experience she could go a lifetime without experiencing and still die satisfied. She felt lighter as well, since the dark turmoil that plagued her over Daenerys had fled in the face of their mutual antics.

She craned her head and squinted against the bright light of the dwarf's lamp. "What can I do for you, Lord Tyrion?"

The apparent lack of her usual malice towards the advisor surprised Arya almost as much as it did Tyrion, who cocked his head in obvious question.

"I'm sure your training has been quite thorough." He said. "I can't imagine what a rogue assassin from the most deadly and clandestine order known to civilization could fail to accomplish. But since you seem to be a bit...tied up...at the moment," Tyrion gave her a wink, "I suppose I will have to settle for information."

Knowing that this was going happen at some point or another, she sighed and gave him a nod of consent. "I am at your disposal."

"Was that really all I needed to do?" Tyrion asked, sounding a touch disappointed. "You're not going to put me through a trial of will or cleverness first?"

She shook her head. "No time for that, we have allies waiting for us in the North." Arya looked to Daenerys. "Are your other sailors being readied?"

"They are, how much longer before everything is finished?" she asked, turning the timeline on Tyrion.

"Another hour at most." He declared.

"Then I suppose there are constraints on your inquisition, dear counselor," Arya wriggled her hands free before turning her attention to the bindings that surrounded them. "We should have time enough to speak of three secrets. What do you wish to know?"

"Only three?" He groused, his outrage fluxing between sincerity and pure theatricality. "How am I supposed to condense the whole of my curiosity into-"

"Two if you continue to dawdle." She told him, grinning caustically.

He huffed his disapproval, but was silent for a moment as he pondered his actual question.

"What weapons did they send you with besides your blade and dagger?"

Admittedly, it was a good question. Most people assumed the Faceless Men snuck up like bogeymen in the night to slit their target's throats, and gave it no more thought than that. She had to mentally tally up her inventory to give an accurate answer.

"Myself, several other smaller daggers, a mirror, my two belts, a hairpin, a small Valyrian steel shard, promises of golden dragons, my boots, a number of tunics, three pairs of pants, a writing pen, my strongbox-"

Tyrion waved his hands. "Enough, enough, I understand, anything you can put your hands on becomes a weapon."

"My collection of poisons…" She continued, working at a particularly stubborn twist of fibers.

"Poisons?" Daenerys asked, and it seemed to bother her more than the litany of destruction she had already named.

"Poisons." Arya confirmed. "Fast, slow, weak, strong, some to kill, some to sicken, some to cause sleep or inattention; all formed by my own hand, and their antidotes as well."

"You  _made_  them?" Tyrion asked, aghast.

"And tasted them as well." She told him, baring her teeth in a satisfied grin as a length of rope slid free.

"How is it that you still live?" Daenerys asked.

Arya was about to casually brush the comment away with an offhand remark about always carrying antidotes, but there was a note of disquiet that reached out to her. It gripped her tightly and held fast.

"Trial and error." She said softly, honestly.

Some raw bit of vulnerability must have shone through, because she saw it reflected back on her queen's face. "You start small," she explained, "with herbs to make you drowsy, or sick to your stomach." Her eyes dropped back to the task in hand to gain distance from the experiences. "That way you know how each poison works, and what to do if it is used against you."

She fiddled with a cinched knot, waiting for questions, but there were none.

"Then comes the next step, and the one after that, each time the illnesses get worse." Her hands clenched tightly into the twisted hemp as a memory surfaced, her right hand a bright spike of agony. "Their antidotes become more complicated as well."

A small, warm hand covered her bandaged one and she forced her grip to relax. "What happened?"

The scarred assassin knew that if she looked, she would see those violet embers cast her way. Eyes that shone bright with the light of someone who knew, down to their very bones, that they were destined for greatness; they would be fixed solely on her, banishing all other distraction as if they were the last people alive and Tyrion were no more than a stray cobweb.

She couldn't return that gaze, couldn't mar the light of the brimming sun with an empty shadow.

"I was impatient." Arya said flatly, speaking to air. "I had made it further and faster than any other apprentice and knew I was still weak from my earlier trials, but I didn't care."

The tincture had been sweet, deceptively so, and at the time she thought it a perfect match for strong drink. She remembered her world going dark, black fog shot through with veins of flashing red as her sight failed and her body began to shut down.

"I hadn't expected it to work so quickly, but I had the remedy in hand in case it did. It was fast, and strong as well, so I drank and waited for relief."

The pain had doubled her over, her stomach cramping so terribly that surely her insides were bleeding.

"Something was wrong. I hadn't made the antidote correctly."

She felt pressure from the hand covering her own. "What did you do?"

_Plan twice as often as you act._  Had been the Poison Master's glib saying. She was never wholly sure of who had taught her, each lesson had brought a new face, but the words had been the same. It was those words that had saved her.

"Luckily, I had made a second vial, but it was also prepared incorrectly. I had forgotten heat."

Her eyes had become useless and her left arm wracked to spasm, but they had trained her to work despite those shortcomings.

She had found her target by touch alone, pumping the bellows to flare the coals into a fire before grabbing her spare vial.

"I found the brazier, and thrust the flask into the flames, waiting for it to change and react."

The pain had been unbearable, but worse was the smell of her blistering flesh as she waited an eternity for the slight hiss and bubble that meant the reaction had taken place.

"When it had finished, I bolted it down, scalding my mouth and throat, but it was better than dying."

"Better than dying like that, at least." Tyrion said, sympathetic.

"Did it work?" Daenerys asked, and this time she managed to free her stare from the void that called to her and look upon her queen.

She was met with endless violet depths that she wished to drown in. A soul that made her want to whisper all her dark secrets into the hot furnace of the Targaryen's flesh, her endless fire burning them all to ash until nothing remained but the bright and burnished steel that the tarnished assassin dreamt of becoming.

"I'm here, aren't I?" She took her free hand and lay it atop Daenerys', suddenly not so sure about immolation after she remembered how much the burns had pained her, and how they had lingered for weeks afterward.

Tyrion made some noises that could be construed as something to garner attention.

Arya sighed internally, that man could be delayed, but never diswayed, especially when secrets or information were involved.

"I do believe I have two more topics remaining." He said, carefully looking to their queen to gauge her displeasure.

She actually felt the tension of a protective bristle before she saw a reaction on Daenerys' face.

"It's alright," Arya said, quick to diffuse the rising ire. "I did promise you answers, go ahead."

"How do you change your face?"

"The short answer," she tried to condense down the process and failed, "is blood magic."

"And the long one?" He asked, leaning back against a stout barrel before hanging the lantern on a rough metal hook that protruded from a support column. Why hadn't she thought of that earlier?

_Because you had an injured queen sleeping peacefully atop your chest and couldn't move._  Her mind supplied helpfully.

"Through a process I have yet to learn in its entirety, the House of Black and White takes the faces of those that come to our temple and preserves them."

"Like curing a leather hide?" Even Tyrion, who normally seemed to reserve his judgement when it came to new information or customs, seemed put off by this. "And who are these people that give their faces to begin with, is that how you become a Faceless Man, are there people walking about without mouths or eyes or noses?"

"You misunderstand." Arya said, trying to figure out a way to properly impart the information she had learned. It hadn't seemed gruesome at the time, simply the logical reuse of discarded materials; Payment for an end to suffering.

"The House of Black and White is home to the Many-Faced God."

"In all my studies and travels," Tyrion said, "I have yet to hear someone speak of this god. How does he differ from all the others?"

"He differs in that he  _is_  all of the others, or at least the ones we are required to pay homage to…"

"What sort of tyrannical-"

"You call him the Stranger." She calmly interrupted his tirade. "Many other religions and cultures give him other names and faces, but his purpose is always that same."

" _Valar morghulis._ " Daenerys said quietly.

That brought forth a frank grin. "My queen has been listening." Arya said, tasting the title in her own mouth. It was sweet, but so were many dangerous poisons.

She pressed her body up, sliding her legs free before sitting down upon the loose ring of untied rope that surrounded them. She offered up her uninjured hand to assist Daenerys and she took it, returning the smile before taking a dignified seat across from her. As dignified a seat as any queen could manage, given that her throne for the time being happened to be an unruly bundle of hemp in the middle of a damp hold.

"Your god is death?" Tyrion's voice rose with his incredulity.

Arya shrugged. "He is as good a god as any, and better than some I have heard of, at least we have proof."

"I'm still not certain that I understand." Tyrion said. "The living come into your temple and you murder them to worship Death before stealing their faces and wearing them to commit assassinations?"

"You have the acts correct, dear counselor, but actions can be seen as no more than vicious injustice unless you know the intentions behind them."

" _Valar dohaeris._ " Daenerys nodded, understanding. She seemed to have laid claim upon the hand Arya had offered her earlier, and was now lightly tracing the latticework of scars that covered it.

The delicate touch sent a shiver down her spine and Arya felt her the fine hairs that covered her skin prickle with sensation.

_But to whom must they serve?_

The memory of those words burned in the back of her mind, a white hot brand amid the dark secrets. It was only with great difficulty that she managed to maintain her composure and speak sensibly, instead of falling into the whispered designs of these newly arisen urges that seemed to plague her. Base as they were, her unattended mind kept slipping back to them, the same as a compass needle realigning to North.

"It was a gift," she said, tearing her attention from the intricate dance being performed upon her hand, "and gifts can only be given to those who would willingly receive them."

"That makes no sense." Daenerys said stopping her tracery as she did.

A mix of emotions flooded through Arya: swift relief, and a surprisingly strong, half-starved pang of want.

"She has a point." Tyrion followed. "The entire business of paying a king's ransom to the Faceless Men in order to contract for regicide is counter to the policy set forth in the temple. What costs one man a fortune in gold and favors to make true is given freely to every beggar that prostrates themselves at your front door."

It was a contradiction that all the acolytes had faced at one point or another, but no one had ever dared broach it. When a name was given, obedience followed swiftly after, and questions were never even thought, let alone spoken.

"Value is relative." Arya explained, skirting the heart of his complaint. "A king, being a king, owns a ransom as large as his kingdom. A sick and injured beggar owns nothing more than their own body and perhaps one suit of clothing. In both cases, The House of Black and White takes everything they hold of value, and then grants the Gift."

"The faces…" Daenerys gasped, realizing the difference between a gift owed and a gift received.

Arya only nodded.

"Do you mean to tell me that Cressio Menaris is a real person?" For the first time, she saw fear, real fear, rise up in Tyrion's eyes. "He came to your temple and asked for mercy, and all this while you just wore him like a coat?"

"It's more than that," she insisted, trying to impart the gravity of what she had gone through, bonding with the eunuch.

"The Menaris family has been linked to the Iron Bank, and subsequently the Faceless Men, for more than a century. This particular member had the poor fortune to run into some very unsavory people at a point early on in his life, and for that he paid dearly." She let her audience fill in the details. "Unable to properly serve his family, he turned to the water dance, and quickly became more than simply proficient."

"Did he fall ill?" Daenerys asked, "If he was as good as you say, most duels would pose no threat."

"He was that good," she told Daenerys, "but he was also reckless."

She remembered that night, the doors had burst open with such force, she had thought a storm had blown in from the sea. He stood before her, wavering, but refusing to do anything but stand tall. He was thin as a switch, but trailed so much blood that the weirwood door was stained red in the faint torchlight.

His eyes roved wildly, like a caged animal, until he caught sight of the fountain. He settled and took a measured step towards it, then another, before crumpling into a heap of long limbs and sheathed Braavosi steel. Her hand had opened, and the broom she had been using to tend to the floor fell with a clatter. She rushed towards him, wondering if she could help him or ease his pain, but before she could lay a hand on him, he was dragging himself forward on his arms. This one had nursed his pride from a squalling infant into his stalwart companion, but his body was failing, and quickly. Changing her tact, she took one of the many black cups that rested beside the fountain, filled it, and came back to him.

He collapsed again just as she was returning, and she took the opportunity to put a soft hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, and she smiled the easy, reassuring smile she had practiced every day in the silver mirror for almost a year.

It had worked the way she intended, and he stopped fighting. She knelt down and tousled his short, dark hair before she cupped her hand beneath and rested his head in her lap, a final witness to record the last moments of his life. She watched him, and waited.

"It was stupid," he admitted, hissing sharply when a too deep breath put him in pain, "but I needed to see who was better, me, or the Sealord's First Sword."

He flashed her a stunning grin, probably one of his best, but the effect was marred by the bloody foam that coated his teeth.

She said nothing, it was not her place to speak, only to listen. He took her silence as an invitation, telling her of his unfortunate life, of dark alleys and their occupants that were best left undiscovered. As an heir, the cut had lost him almost everything, but still, he clung to his fallen existence with a stubborn gladness that fascinated her.

"He had thought that his misfortune with the knife had been the worst of it, but he had been wrong." Arya told them. "His family line is directly descended from one of the sixteen keyholders that founded the Iron Bank, and they value longevity above all else. Unable to uphold those expectations, they disowned him, banishing his very name from their records. Without his bearing or a sponsor, he was left with little more than his steel and the clothes on his back. He wandered the city, begging and dueling and gambling until his reputation, as well as his hard won fortune, grew and he was known solely as the Black Bravo of Menaris."

"Sounds like my kind of fellow." Tyrion said. "It's just a shame that his unfortunate accident eliminated whoring from his notoriety."

Left with nothing, stripped of everything that had given him an identity, as a man and as a person, the Black Bravo remained his indomitable self. Given the same circumstances, Arya Stark had become No One.

He hadn't needed the black cup after all. When his story was finished, the bravo cast his gaze around briefly, trying to decide which god would receive him into the afterlife.

He looked to the Hooded Wayfarer for a long moment, and she had thought that his choice, but then those intense, lively eyes stared straight into her, and she held them with her own. She never knew what color they had been, the moon and the torchlight had leeched out what may have shone blue or green. In that moment, pale, storm grey met its own regard.

"Thank you," he said quietly, so softly that is was scarce more than a whispered movement.

He took a one last breath, difficult and hollow, then his chest stilled and a fog of silence rolled through the main hall. Those valiant, unconquered eyes stilled with him and a small, lone bead of water splashed down, painting him silver in the moonlight.

"I took his body downstairs afterward and cleaned it." A voice spoke aloud, continuing the narrative, and Arya numbly realized that it was her own. "Eventually others came and I was dismissed."

"What happened after that?" Tyrion asked, now fully invested. "The faces, how do they take the faces?"

"That is not for me to know." Arya said truthfully.

She was about to continue her tale when Daenerys spoke and Arya remembered leaving a loose end.

"But if his name was stricken from the House records, how did you know he was called Cressio?"

"I didn't." She replied honestly. "He took his true name to the Many-Faced God."

"Who then, is Cressio?" Daenerys asked, and her heart clenched once she realized she had no choice but to reveal her secret.

"We were." She said, watching the curious startlement pique in those strange eyes of hers. "The next time I saw that face, it was handed to me for long term service with the Iron Bank. The assignment was rare in that, if performed correctly, it could have very well lasted a lifetime."

"Did they explain why it was his face that they chose for you?" Daenerys was grasping for meaning, and Arya wondered if she too was wondering how much of the growing attraction between them had been sparked by who she had become when she put the mask of Cressio on, and who still lay underneath.

"Not in so many words," she admitted, "our intelligence reported that your closest confidants were men, but that you had a-" Arya didn't know how to politely phrase the rest of the information they gave her.

The queen gave her an arch expression. "That I had a predilection for having my counselors…" She turned to her advisor. "What was the last tavern song you heard on this subject, Lord Tyrion?"

"I do believe the line you're looking for is: 'find himself within her fiery slit,' your grace." He said, taking deep breaths as he tried to maintain his deadpan expression.

"That would be the breadth of it, yes," Arya said, nearly choking on the words, "but once you have...bedded your counselors, they have a habit of meeting a terrible end, and the Bank wanted to prevent the loss of valuable resources."

"It wasn't a habit." Daenerys countered, full of a sharp and brittle anger she had not yet encountered. "There were no 'counselors' involved either," she looked away and Arya could see the glitter of unshed tears sparkle in the lamplight, "it was only one man."

There it was again. That feeling that gutted her like a ragged, unkempt blade, an edge that ripped and tore rather than cutting cleanly.

"Your grace, I…" Tyrion began.

Arya shot him a look which, if she had tensed her brow just so, would take her expression from slightly menacing to truly terrifying. Tyrion's sudden and complete quiet was a good indication of her success.

She dropped to her knees before the small woman, and took the shaking hands into her own, chafing them lightly with her thumbs.

"Daenerys," she growled softly, hoping to inflect the natural burr her voice seemed to catch, as it seemed to affect the Targaryen, "they don't know you."

Shining violet looked up at her, and in that moment her heart tripped and froze, awkwardly missing a beat before it clumsily slammed two together and continued on its merry way. "Anyone whose life you touched knows the truth."

The beleaguered look faded ever so slightly, and Arya balanced on the precipice of saying more, or leaving her words as they were.

Silence had always suited her best, so she left the words, and raised up Daenerys' hands, brushing her lips lightly across the knuckles. She looked again, and the weariness had vanished, replaced by a deep peace that she had only ever seen across the rim of a black cup.

The dampened spark rekindled, and Arya saw her queen emerge once more. Elation and a flush of warm contentment surged through her, as though she had a drunk a belly full of Myrish firewine.

One small smile from Daenerys was all it took to transform suspicion into fact. Arya had fallen, fallen so hard that her solidly built armor cracked and through the broken seams flowed hidden weakness. No longer could she bear the mantle of steadfast, impervious, unfettered No One.

If this was what love felt like, those ridiculous minstrels that Sansa had doted upon wagged tongues prettily gilded by lies instead of silver. It had nothing to do with flowers or poetry or courtly adulation, it was the single, shining moment when Arya realized her actions had made a difference for someone she cared about.

The fear, then, was that she had come upon a blade with no grip or hilt. Wanting to make that same someone happy left her open and exposed to acts and desires not of her own making. It became an inextricable link, winding around and through itself until it was impossible to find where one strand ended and the other began. It was terrifying, heady and beyond her control, like tumbling across rain soaked rooftops blindfolded, each step a testament to unwavering trust; trust in herself, trust in the roof, and above all, trust in the rain.

Caught up in the richly colored sensations of what could be this thing Tyrion had called 'Love', Arya failed to summon even the slightest hint of concern over this new and troublesome invader, but she couldn't dwell on that now, she needed to finish her story.

"Again, not knowing your extreme," she couldn't hold back the playfulness now if the Kindly Man himself had insisted upon it, "...persistence...in obtaining the things and, in particular, people you desire, the Bank sent me. As a woman, I could have been a burden or a rival, a boy knows little, and a man cast from my small body would be perceived as weak or sickly."

"You cannot change your body as well?" Tyrion asked, unable to remain fearful for any length of time.

"There are glamours," she said, "but they are only enough to fool the eye, and not for more than a day or two at most. This assignment was long, and sent me into unfamiliar territory with an army of unknown temperament. One wrong touch and my disguise would have faded to nothing more than dust and sunlight."

"But not your face." Tyrion noted.

"Not the face." Arya agreed. "There is much more to that than a simple glamour." She drug a fingertip across the thickened line of scarred flesh that ran down her cheeks. "There is a cut made, we use a small shard of Valyrian steel, but I am not sure if that is a necessity or simply tradition. The blood runs down and we lay the face we are given upon our own, the two mingle, and after a moment the skin flushes to life with memory and sensation."

"What did you remember?" Dany asked.

"Mostly flashes."

"But not his name?"

"No," Arya insisted, "that was his to keep."

" _Who are you?" They had asked her this same question a thousand times before, but this time, she spoke the truth._

_"No one."_

"Do you know of the Iron Bank?" They had asked.

"Everyone knows of the Iron Bank."

"Just so." They had said. "Everyone needs the Iron Bank, but the Iron Bank needs no one. Who are you?"

"No One."

" _ **Valar morghulis**_ _."_

She had dressed the part first. Instead of taking something from the stores the House of Black and White had collected from the penitent, she was gifted new made clothing, a flamboyant bravos' shirt and pants. The stylized hands and hourglass of the Iron Bank were emblazoned in several locations, always wrought from gold and silver thread.

The new garments were stiff in a way she could barely recall experiencing, and she stood straighter and taller because of it, shocked when her eyes were met levelly by the Kindly Man's. She had always had to look up to him.

A bright flash of pain across her cheeks, and then the face was placed into her hands, soft and supple. She smoothed it across her own in one fluid motion, and then reeled as the memories broke through and overwhelmed her.

The cut, the shame, the slow, difficult rise to power afterwards. All these and more ran together into a blur of hot emotion. It rose and intensified, the crescendo climaxing with the night he had come to her at the fountain, and running underneath it all, like a river hidden deep below the earth, was the desire to leave.

Not to die, that feeling was as familiar to her as her own scars. She had tasted it in every desire and flavor, from the frantic grasping of scorned lovers, who drank poison to mend heartache, to the glad release of the old and broken, who greeted it as a dear friend.

All these she had known, time and time again, but this man, the Black Bravo, held his unique longing above all else.

She felt it blossom within her, becoming her own.

Their own.

" _ **Valar dohaeris**_ _."_

" _Who are you?" The Kindly Man had asked, and the banker spoke the truth._

" _This one is Cressio Menaris." The eunuch tipped his hat in a flourish. "When do I leave?"_

"For me, and for him, Cressio meant a new beginning. He was miles and miles of clean, unblemished sand after the tide has gone out. He was a separation from the suffering we had both endured at the hands of a world that wanted nothing better than to snuff out our lives and be done with us."

"Whose life was at stake for you?" Daenerys wondered aloud. "No One's, or Arya Stark's?"

Arya looked down at her hands, remembering every cut and slash that scarred them. Some were inflicted during the remnants of her slaughtered childhood, its corpse left in Westeros to rot and decay. The others far outnumbered those early injuries, and came from her time spent serving amongst the Faceless.

She spoke slowly, her vague and scattered thoughts coalescing into words as she did. "The object of becoming No One is to disappear entirely, to lose yourself in service and, when necessary, perform a facsimile of life so believable that one can pass unnoticed through even the most thorough of scrutinies. This perfect farce is performed for the sole reason of accomplishing the objective. When it is finished, the wearer returns to the House of Black and White and gives up the face they were assigned."

She drew a hand across her face, mimicking the motion she used to retrieve the borrowed flesh. "After it is removed, that life vanishes, and the empty, deadly obedient No One arises in their stead." She looked up again and saw both Daenerys and Tyrion watching her intently. "Arya Stark was long dead. I had spent years erasing every last trace of her, there was nothing left of her life to fear for."

"Who are you, then?" Daenerys asked, and she heard the thousand echoes ricochet down the corridors of memory. "Who was it that longed to start anew?" The tiny queen stood and the full force of her authority and magnetism radiated off her in waves, defying her stature. "Who swore on their utmost belief in me and asked for vengeance? Who risks certain death to defy an order they could not honorably follow? Who dares to stand as my right hand and burn the pretenders from their stone burrows?"

"I do." She said, with simple ferocity. "I am what they cannot kill, what cannot be crushed or bribed or bartered. I will not stop, falter or fail. I am without name, the trusted shadow that stands just beyond your bright gates." She took Daenerys' hand as she stood and placed it over her heart, feeling it thunder underneath her burning fingertips. "I am less than a shade of what you deserve, but desire to walk the sacred paths beyond all the same." She met her queen's eyes and held them. Her focus was solely on Daenerys, banishing all other distraction as if they were the last people alive and Tyrion were no more than a stray cobweb. In that stillness, she found the strength to bare the tattered remnants of her soul. "That is who I am, and that is who I will always be."

"Then that is who I accept." Daenerys said easily, her tone warm and without the slightest hesitation.

Deep inside, beyond anything the Faceless Men had ever touched, the last barrier shattered, and fell to dust.


	23. Ch 22 - Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valyrian dialogue taken from https://wiki.dothraki.org/High_Valyrian_Vocabulary

Chapter 22 - Dany

"Then that is who I accept." She said, looking into those honest grey eyes; eyes that had remained unchanged despite the face she wore or the role she played. It was those same eyes that had glowed with earnest passion and devotion from the very beginning, and still did. As a queen, she would be a fool to overlook such loyalty. As a woman, the enticing promise of someone devoting their entire self to  _her_ , and not to her potential throne, made the never ending offers from well bred, power hungry suitors into the pale mockeries they were.

Reluctant to take back her tingling fingertips, she took a moment to respect the offer in its entirety. All this she was given, and no barter was required, no piecemeal parceling of her strength or morals. The only price asked was acceptance, and it had been paid so long ago that, here and now, it was not a cost but merely an understanding of what she had received.

"If you two are going to kiss," Tyrion said loudly, interrupting the heavy silence, "then you either need to make me leave, or invite me to participate."

Dany shook her head with a soft chuckle, her stout advisor's flawless perception was matched only by his timing, and this was no exception.

"I don't think you're tall enough to participate, dear counselor." Arya teased. She had no better name for the person who dared to champion her, so she would call her as much. "I kneel to no man."

Tyrion grinned rakishly, his mismatched eyes glittering with a satisfaction that bordered on malice. Arya had unknowingly stumbled into Tyrion's strongsuit. His return would do more than just dance upon the line of impropriety, it would leap straight past it into the obscene.

Dany was really not in the mood for a battle of implied sexual proclivities right at the moment, nor did she want to nurture the fractious nature of their generally tenuous relationship. She was queen, and they had sworn to be subservient to her commands.

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, but the command of Queen Daenerys Targaryen left little room for insolence. "Enough."

Both of them obeyed and held their tongues. The tension, however, refused to dissipate, and her counselors continued to glare at one another.

"It must have been an hour." She spoke pointedly to Tyrion. "Would you be so kind as to demonstrate your cleverness?"

"I thought I was about to." He started to joke. She said nothing and some of the sparkle vanished from his eyes as he withered under her displeasure. The dwarf turned and made his way back to the stairs, taking them singly and with cautious precision. She heard one of his steps falter despite this. "Gods damn all steps to the Seven Hells." He muttered angrily, before throwing open the door and striding out into the bright shaft of sunlight that penetrated the hold.

That left her alone with Arya, whose features were now closed to her and unreadable. The flaring of her temper had been enough to send away the forward confidence her newly sworn sword had held just moments prior. She regretted that, as the playfulness had given her insight into an unguarded Arya. There was nothing to be done for it now, they had people counting on them.

People counting on  _her_. "You shouldn't antagonize him so." Dany chided gently. "The two of you are more alike than either of you care to admit."

Silence followed, and it was not the comfortable sort. She wondered what was mulling in the quiet Northerner's head.

"I shouldn't wear this face." Arya said, a decision having been made.

Dany stepped closer, causing her to look up from her reverie and take notice. "I am becoming quite fond of this face." She protested, raising a hand and brushing the backs of her knuckles across the thick line of scars that bisected her fallen assassin's cheek.

Wounded grey eyes looked back at her, and she was pierced by the brief instant of vulnerability. Then, quick as a silver minnow dashing off the surface, it was gone, and Dany became an outsider once more.

"Not for you," she said gruffly, but her façade was still frail and imperfect, "for Jon."

Her puzzlement must have shown, because Arya began to explain herself.

"We are arriving in potentially dangerous territory and there is a possibility that there will be fighting at that very moment, correct?"

She nodded.

"How would you feel if your long dead sibling appeared from nowhere, and told you to come sail away on their ship?"

For Daenerys, it seemed at first a poor example. She immediately thought of Viserys. If the ill tempered prince had come to her now and ordered her to do  _anything_ , she would be quick to demonstrate how little power he now held over her, but her family was not the Stark family.

She thought again.

What if Rhaegar had surprised her, arriving during a critical strategic moment in one of her many sieges to liberate the slaves of the falsely named Free Cities, astonishing any and every onlooker with his legendary field skills. What would she have done then?

She would have watched him, she realized, and done not much else.

But whereas the foes would have been transfixed by the appearance of the fallen prince, their enemies would hold no such regard.

That aside, her role in battle was far different than Jon's. When it came to war, she was a field commander, watching carefully planned maneuvers fall into place one by one to build victory from impossible odds, or sometimes surging high overhead, laying down row after row of dragonfire, but Jon? He led from the front lines, sword in hand as he cut a swath of destruction through the wights, a cleansing fire surging through a field mired in locust.

Jon's attention would stray, and only his. If he faltered, for even a moment, that would be his end. Despite the vast difference in viewpoints that sometimes separated her and the lost Stark daughter, in this at least, they were in full agreement.

"You're right." She said, and watched the Northerner jerk in surprise. "The last thing Jon needs is a distraction."

Arya only nodded.

"Also...There's something I need to tell you about what we face." Dany said hesitantly.

"If some rival clan of upstart Wildlings think themselves the greatest fighters alive, they haven't seen even a fraction of what I have lived through." Arya said, obviously distracted with planning.

"They're not."

"Not great fighters?" A dark brow furrowed. "Then what is your concern."

"Not  _alive_." Dany explained, not wholly sure that she would be believed.

The slim woman snorted once, scoffing as she waited for her to continue the jest. When she did not, Arya stiffened and froze, becoming absolutely still as the truth settled. She was a Stark, born of the North, and she would know their stories. "Daenerys," she said slowly, in the same calming, low pitched tone Dany had used to entreat her panicking Silver when an odd footfall unearthed a hissing viper's den, "we're not fighting Wildlings, are we?"

One quick shake of her head was all the response she could muster.

"How many are there?"

"There were thousands when I first saw them, but dragonfire and Jon's forces routed them to less than a few hundred." She was, above all, a tactician when it came to warfare, and she would act the part, despite their unique circumstance.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Her eyes were sharp as cut gems, her words careful.

Dany took a breath and exhaled slowly, giving herself time to solidify her composure into something more dependable. "Every one of our slain allies rose again as one of theirs. This was a matter of days ago, I have no idea where they have been since then or what they plan, only that the skirmish I came upon was going to be Jon's last stand."

"His what!"

She held out a single palm in entreaty, and Arya quieted.

"He was afraid they would be overrun and the wights would take their remaining ships." Dany saw her grimace slightly at the mention of the white walkers. She too would rather not know that old legends were trying to destroy the remaining fragments of her family and raise their corpses into nightmares. "That is the reason I need your help."

"Is that really the only reason?" She asked, the grimace transforming into what could have been a smirk.

" _That_  is a discussion for another time." Dany promised, smoothly deferring the topic.

"Does anyone else know what we're up against?"

She said nothing, and Arya gave impressed whistle.

"That's bold of you." She said. "Though I don't think any of your men would believe you, no matter what you told them."

"That's not-"

But Arya shook her head. "You're the queen, and it's your decision. That's all there is to the matter."

Dany wasn't sure if she was relieved or angry. That little speech could be taken as true devotion, at least in this matter, or patronizing lip service. She decided to leave the conversation as it was and move forward, since she was, after all, their queen.

"Let us see what cleverness Tyrion has come up with, shall we?"

She put out her hand and Arya took it in a genteel fashion. "My queen." She tucked her chin in a tiny nod of deference and led her carefully through the maze of barrels, then up the steps and out into the bright sunlight.

 

* * *

 

"Ah, your grace," he said, his voice carrying easily across the deck, "you've arrived just in time for the test run."

"Test run?" She echoed curiously, wondering how in the world he managed to wrangle her stubborn Drogon while she was otherwise occupied.

The small man gestured to an unused boom that had attached to the main mast, one of her crewmen heaved on a line and it swung out over the main deck. A length of slack line smacked into an enclosure built of wood, metal and sturdy looking lashing.

She found herself appreciating his cunning and intelligence when it came to the practicality of design. This invention showed the same attention to detail that was present throughout every stitch in her gloves. "You seem to have outdone yourself, Lord Tyrion."

Buoyed by his pride, the dwarf stood tall as anyone aboard, and she hoped the rest of her crew and counsel would come to see what she had known all along. Tyrion was a clever man, not clever for a dwarf, or a crippled, misshapen thing. He was clever, and the sooner they would believe in him as she did, the sooner she could achieve greatness without the gruesome cost of warfare blighting Westeros.

"He truly is more than seen at first glance." A voice burred softly behind her right ear.

"I had thought that you, more than anyone here, would have seen more than just a dwarf." Dany had felt the sure, supportive grip on her good arm slide free once they were in sight of the rest of the crew. She understood the need for caution, but there was a deep pang of loss coupled with the motion that bothered her to an alarming degree.

"Make no mistake, my queen," she continued, "I saw the man, but that man was Lannister, born and bred. That took time to overcome, seeing him as anything other than a threat or a target."

She turned halfway back and gave a look that feigned surprise. "Ah yes, I had forgotten your lineage; Stark pride, born and bred, isn't it?"

Grey eyes widened at being caught, then narrowed angrily.

"You can't stop being No One and refuse to be Arya Stark," she admonished.

Arya turned her head away. "There's so much of that girl that is just...gone from me." She let out a breath. "I don't know if what is left is enough."

Dany brushed two fingers down the thick fabric of her waistcoat lapel before pitching her voice lower. "As I said before, whatever is, or isn't there, is perfectly all right."

" _This is who I am, and this is who I will always be."_  The Northerner said, in a melancholy Valyrian.

A Stark lamenting their loss of self in a language that no Northerner had ever properly learned. For Daenerys, the myriad shards that forged her chosen sword had never been clearer.

" _And_ _ **you**_ _are who I accept."_ She reminded her, giving a single, gentle tap to the chest beneath the lapel before turning back to look at Tyrion's exhibition.

"Hoist!" Tyrion shouted, and there was grumbling alongside a bit of swearing from the men as they heaved on the rope.

There was a strained, creaking noise as the square cage left the deck and rose into the air. As she looked closer, Dany could see through the closely woven latticework of wood and steel. Inside were two of the massive kegs she had seen downstairs, presumably still full of supplies. The enclosure and the rigging held without complaint. She raised an appreciative eyebrow, successfully suspending and transporting that much weight was a feat of engineering in and of itself, much less figuring out a way to attach it to a dragon. She was about to tell Tyrion this and congratulate him on a job well done when he shouted out more commands.

The sailors took the thick rope they had been hauling and wound it around the foremast a few times before cinching it with one of their many intricate but easily released knots. She had been trying to learn them during their sea voyage, but had been unsuccessful with all but the simplest of ties.

"Impressive," she said loudly, stepping forward to get a better view of the airborne shelter, "your designs have exceeded my expectations. How are Drogon and I going to take this with us?"

Tyrion gestured to an Unsullied soldier, his name was Bright Spear, and he had been no more than a boy with his puppy when she had taken him from Astapor. He stepped forward, carrying an armload of leather strapping and jingling steel rings.

"This is his yet untested harness, if your grace will do the honors?"

Dany put two fingers to her mouth whistled a high, shrill note. Nothing happened for a moment, other than the crew on deck wincing from the sharp sound of it. Then, as she looked to the horizon line, she could see the familiar shape of her largest child.

"I suggest that you move." She advised, as his fierce roar sounded a fanfare fit for the unconventional dragon prince. The men scurried to obey, but Arya, she noticed, stayed right where she was.

He alighted on the deck, and Dany winced as she heard the telltale splintering of wood beneath his large talons. She must ask Tyrion his thoughts on adding some sort of reinforcement to the areas he preferred to land upon, else they would be scuttled long before the  _Honorro_  ever caught a glimpse of Westeros.

The razor toothed, nightmare beast huffed once, smoke curling from his nostrils, before he butted his large head against her and she scratched lightly along the horned crest at the base of his jaw.

" _Here, please._ " Dany waved a delicate finger at Bright Spear in a come hither motion. The Unsullied stood transfixed, fear and duty warring across his features. Her young soldier tried to take another step closer, and failed. The close proximity of Drogon was too much for him.

There was an impatient sigh behind her, and Dany heard thick, well crafted bootsoles carefully step across the deck. She smiled softly and buried her face into the warm scales of his forehead.

" _Give it to me._ " Arya said, her voice firm.

Dany heard the jingle of rings again, and then a quick shuffling of feet as she pictured a relieved Bright Spear rejoining the ranks that lined the rails of the main deck.

Sure steps approached, coming closer to her and Drogon than anyone else had ever dared.

" _My queen._ " She said loudly, with a stiff, almost painful formality that reminded Dany of the task they were charged with.

Dany turned to look, and Arya had taken a knee before her, presenting the heavy bundle of boiled leather and steel to her with not even the slightest hint of effort. She had done this so silently that Dany had not even heard the leather in her boots creak, nor the tinkling of even a single ring.

"...if you're done scaring the children…" The skilled assassin teased, her words barely audible.

She took the proffered harness and began to untangle the straps, their length easily more than two or three times her height. She made an attempt to gracefully drape the device over the bulk of Drogon's scaled back, but her attempts were pitiful at best, and pitiful was unsuitable for a leader.

Cool hands covered her own before she could think to ask for help.

"If my queen would accept her humble servant's assistance." Arya offered, smoothing the leather flat and stepping back away from her before starting to circle behind Drogon.

Her problem solved, Dany watched her take careful steps, calmly closing the distance to the more dangerous portions of a dragon's anatomy.

She saw a flash of motion and heard the startled cries of the crew before she understood what had happened. Arya's last step had been one too many and the two were now in a standoff.

There was a smoking piece of cloth stuck between two of his massive teeth, and she recognized the color as part of Arya's waistcoat. Dany had seen Drogon strike in that manner many times. No one should be left standing after an assault like that.

Yet there she was, grey eyes focused sharp as flint, a strap of leather looped around Drogon's jaw and twisted tight between her straining hands. The scars and bones of her knuckles stood out vividly, even against her Northern pale.

No One.

Drogon snorted in outrage, charring the top layer of the deck. He twisted his neck violently, eager to break free and loose his molten anger.

But Arya was waiting for him, and leapt with the motion. She swung upwards and turned in a graceful arc, landing in possibly the most dangerous place Dany could imagine.

Atop her dragon's head.

"Kelitis!" She yelled, with everything that was inside her. Slitted red eyes looked to her, and all she needed was the barest of seconds.

"Dori kisagos! Kivio dori kisagos!" He cocked his head in question, nearly toppling Arya. "Uja issa nuhon! Issa nuhon! Uja issa nuhon hae ao issas nuhon."

He snorted.

"Uja se ao issan henka." She assured him.

Slitted crimson widened in offense.

"Ao issas toli rovegrior." Arya conceded to her mount. "Dreji."

His eyes rolled up to meet Arya, considering, and for a single, terrible instant, Dany's whole existence balanced on the whim of a legendary predator.

He huffed, once, and then dropped his head to the curling charcoal of the deck he had ignited. Arya wasted no time, she was off of Drogon and three paces back in less time than it took Dany to blink.

" _Shall we finish our task, my queen?_ " Arya asked, lifting up the loose strap she had subdued Drogon with before tugging lightly on the interlocked web that she still clutched tightly between her fingers. It was only then that she noticed her hands were shaking.

" _We shall._ " She agreed, and they set to work with a will.

 

* * *

 

She stood in the cramped quarters of her cabin, looking at her possessions as she tried to decide what to bring and what to leave. Except for the bandage loosely wrapped around one arm, the Northern furs still covered her body. They were slightly too warm for the climate they were sailing through, but she knew the sun would not shine brightly on them for much longer.

Dany pulled on the gloves Tyrion had made for her, and cinched up the belt she had also been given after they had finished fastening the elaborate harness onto Drogon. She had wondered how exactly one was supposed to strap leather and ring to a dragon, but Tyrion had not. The major support points managed to stay out of Drogon's way and leave all of his limbs free for fighting and maneuvering. The material itself was stitched double thick and boiled, and likely the most durable leather they had available. She had no doubt that it would hold, weight wise, but there was still the question of how Drogon would react.

It wasn't everyday that he toted around human passengers and wore a harness, how would he react? Probably the same way he did when Arya stepped too close, but she had blown Dragonbinder, and they would overcome, they had to, for Jon and the Free Folk.

There was a soft knock on her door, and Dany turned to open it. Arya was standing just outside the doorway, her eyes darting from Dany's to the uncleaned scarlet brown stain that still graced the wall behind her. Her face was impassive.

"I brought something for you." She said quietly.

"Come in." Dany said stupidly, not knowing what else to do.

Arya stepped over the threshold without even a hint of trepidation.

"I've noticed you don't have a blade."

"I do not, no." Dany said, doing her best to ignore the glaring example of what happened the last time she took hold of one.

"With what we're facing, you need one."

"I've made it this far without needing one." She said, more angrily than she intended.

"I don't think you have," Arya said without heat, holding up her injured hand.

Dany looked away, unwilling to face what she'd wrought. "I am sorry about that," she said, "there have just been too many betrayals and when you took off that face I…"

She trailed off, lost for words, but Arya was quietly waiting for her to finish, so Dany was forced to explain.

"I couldn't accept that I had lost you as well." She confessed, her voice a harsh whisper.

"We have both made mistakes, you and I." Arya said forgiving her. She revealed a sheath kept low at her side. "I am hoping this will mend some of that."

The dim light of the cabin reflected off the polished white surface of the hilt and twisted her wrist and there was a slight click as a mechanism tripped and the blade pulled free. It was a dagger, but unlike one she had ever seen before.

If it could be called that, it was nearly the length of her forearm. The metal was a bright silver, so light that is shone almost white. The blade itself was slightly curved, and the flat etched with a light gold filigree. The guard and crosshilt were slight, enough to protect her fingers and hand without becoming bulky, but what was most odd about it was the base of the pommel. There was a large ring built into the iridescent stone grip at the bottom, and a small hook at the end, flat and tapered to a point. The outer edges were rounded and blunt, while the inside and tip were honed to a razor sharpness.

Dany took both blade and sheath it in her hands with reverent caution.

"This is yours?" She asked, confused. The weapon seemed at total odds with what she knew about the assassin's personality.

"It fit the face I was wearing at the time." Arya explained quickly, before reaching to her own hip. There was another, identical click, and her own weapon slid free.

It was dark as hers was light, and it did not shine, but the black, mottled finish seemed to drink the light instead. The blade was straighter, with a hard, angular edge and jagged, vicious teeth nearest the hilt. It had a ring and a hook in the pommel as well, but the hook was straighter, and sharp on both sides.

"Does it have a name?" Dany asked.

Arya raised a single, elegant eyebrow in amusement. "Daenerys,  _we_  are not given names, much less our weapons." She smiled to take the sting out of it, then replaced the dagger at the small of her back.

"This may seem foolish," Dany admitted, "but I've no idea how to hold this."

"We'll start from the beginning." Arya said, taking the blade and sheath back before seating them together.

She stepped forward, her arms encircled Dany, grazing the curve of her breasts as she wrapped the thin strapping low on her hips. Distracted by the forward and familiar touch, Dany missed what she had done as the buckle clicked together under her nimble fingers.

Nimble fingers that she wished could be forward and familiar in other places.

"What did you just do?" Dany asked, as she forced herself to focus.

"Are you referring to my touching you or equipping the sheath?" Arya asked, with false innocence.

"Yes."

The tall Northerner stepped close once more, hands settling lightly on Dany's hips.

"I believe I was doing this…" She began, her arms circling around behind her and drawing her closer. "And then I needed to straighten and adjust the height…" Arya continued, working her falsely occupied hands together and increasing the contact against her more sensitive anatomy. "Does that seem about right?" She asked, tilting her head downward slightly as she looked at Dany. They were scant inches apart.

Guileless, clear grey eyes met her own, waiting. Dany accepted, lifting up onto the balls of her feet to meet her. Every drop of her blood thrumming with want.

Then Arya was kissing her, gentle and probing and breathless as they connected and finally gave in to the feelings that had been dancing around them all the while.

They broke apart, stopping for air. Dany had been spun around somehow, and now leaned back against the closed door. Arya's hand still cupped her jaw, but she had bowed her head and was nestled in the hollow between her throat and shoulder, her erratic breath on Dany's flushed skin making her pulse equally so.

"That was…" Arya spoke first, but did not seem entirely coherent.

"Distracting, and confusing, and full of implications we don't have time to explore?" Dany suggested, with mild frustration. She rested her cheek against the dark, shaggy hair, spending a moment to soak it all in, "But lovely."

"Lovely indeed," Arya mumbled, "but we should-"

"Yes." Dany agreed, and they both reached for the door.


	24. Ch 23 - Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,  
> Not a creature was stirring, except for a mouse.
> 
> Prplmunky did click, changed words, then reread.  
> While visions of Westeros danced through her head.
> 
> Muscle relaxants took hold through the night,  
> But even this munky must write the Wight Fight.
> 
> That it's no longer Christmas eve was apparent,  
> But all good Stargaryens deserve their own present.
> 
> So there you have it, a magical Christmas miracle WtSRitE chapter somehow churned out in little more than two weeks, or as Starky coined it, the Miracle on AO3 Street.  
> Huzzah days off! (even if some of them are due to work disability and back injury, but my PT and Chiropractor are splendid and I'm bouncing back quite quickly.)

Ch 23 – Arya

Arya swore as she felt the sharp steel tip stab her yet again, drawing blood. She was better than this. She was a water dancer, swift and silent and fearless. She would not be felled by a foe so meager as this.

She untangled the thread, lined up the button, and tried again. This time it hit true, blessedly missing her fingers as it slid through one of the holes in the carved bone disk that Daenerys had returned to her with an embarrassed apology. Sansa had made this look so easy, as if she didn't even have to think about it, but she wasn't here anymore, Arya was. She was one of the most deadly assassins in all the world, snatching victory from missions failed by countless others, but brought low by loathsome, vexing needlepoint.

Cressio had been kitted out with other shirts, certainly, but none as thick and warm or as comfortable as this. So she was left to burn up her precious preparation time sewing buttons. The tear in her waistcoat hadn't been nearly as difficult to mend. The stitches were crooked and uneven, and she could no longer wear it to formal events, but it was serviceable, the shirt buttons, however…

Those were much harder.

Everything she needed for a fairly long sea voyage after a fight in the North had already been packed, she had saved this particularly irksome task for last. She kept at it, jabbing herself twice more before everything was in a close approximation of where it was supposed to go. Satisfied, she slipped the garment over her head and shrugged on the waistcoat before adding a few more items and her cloak. There were no furs to speak of, but Arya did everything she could to layer and prepare for the biting cold of fabled Winter.

If what Daenerys said was true, then all of Old Nan's stories should be heeded. They would fly right into the teeth of a chill night so dark that it would make the snowy days in Winterfell feel like Summer, but the cold was the least of their worries.

Which was why she had given her the blade.

Not because it was magical, no, it was anything but that. She had given it to her queen because it was forged by the finest craftsmen she had ever met. That knife, and its twin, were tools she had bet her life on, more than once. Those wagers had allowed her to walk away from missions that should have killed her.

Now they were facing dangers that few had even believed in, much less seen, and if she were going to be separated from Daenerys, knowing that she had the blade on her, despite her novice skill with the weapon, gave her some measure of peace.

Then there had been that kiss, whose spark had kindled long dormant embers. Embers she hadn't even thought she possessed, but now they were afire, burning bright and hot. It had taken every hard won link of her self control to stop when she had and not stripped out of her cumbersome clothing, offering herself and taking whatever she could wring from her Silver Queen before reason and propriety intervened. What had she even said?

" _Lovely indeed."_

And it had been, that and so much more. Daenerys had voiced it true: distracting, confusing, and full of implications that neither of them had the time for, not now, not with so much at stake.

She had at least come to her senses and taught Daenerys proper knife technique before she fled to pack, else she would have been reckless as well as frustrated. Frustration, she could deal with, putting her queen in danger because she had been too smitten to finish the lesson was foolhardy at best, and at worst, any injury to Daenerys would have been struck by Arya's own hand.

Or that is how it would have felt, and that was not something she could live with. She had instead snuffed the raging fire to the best of her ability and become the cool, remote instructor that she needed to be.

That they both needed her to be if Daenerys was going to survive a frontal assault with the White Walkers and succeed with their insane plan to rescue Jon and the Wildlings.

She taught Daenerys how to use the talon, and the finger ring, showed her the trick to the sheath, an inward push and a slight twist that would boggle even the most determined of enemies reaching for her blade. In the dozens of missions she had been on, not one foe had ever thought to push when trying to rob No One of her numerous and deadly weapons.

Done packing, she buckled on her final piece, the bravo's blade and dagger. They were worn and well used, so familiar that not wearing them felt as though she had left an arm behind instead of her steel.

There was one last thing to do, and she braced herself as practiced fingers opened yet another pair of scars to add to her collection. Then she placed a familiar face over her own for what she hoped would be the last time. She left the tiny room as Cressio, but the banker was little more than an image. He no longer dwelt inside her, melding two into one. She closed the door softly before joining the others on the main deck.

Tyrion had done well, and inside the crate they would use for traveling were boxes of supplies that had been lashed tightly to the walls so that they would remain secure during the long flight North. They were also cleverly formed into seating. As much as she hated the Lannisters for what they had done to her and her family, Arya had to admit that this man was growing on her. She hoped she would survive long enough to make amends.

He had a long, twisted length of chain and rope held across his thighs and was explaining something to Daenerys. It seemed that this was the link that bound dragon and cage. It was slightly longer than she was tall, and she noticed that the cage had been upended on its side. Her eyes widened as she realized why. The attachment point was on the nearby Drogon's belly, in order to secure the enclosure before he took flight, the two would have to be incredibly close, and the stout wood was taller than the link.

The first few seconds would be the worst, as the enclosure would tilt upright and toss its occupants around in the process. After that, Arya just hoped the lashing would hold the supplies in place and no one would be injured. It was a long span of miles to the Wall.

The other sailors going along seemed more concerned over the reappearance of Cressio than their questionable travel arrangements. She wondered if they knew more about rigging than she did, or if they were just stupid.

She sniffed the air as the faint scent of Blackstrap rum came to her. They were all worried, then.

Arya walked over to where Tyrion and Daenerys were speaking. She waited for them to finish, watching her queen's slight nods as she absorbed her counselor's many warnings.

"...as for landings, you can safely assume it will hold strong for one, anything after that is unknown."

"And should I need to stop before we arrive?" Daenerys asked, her uncertainty was palpable.

"You won't." Arya stepped in, interrupting. A startled look flitted across Daenerys' features before she managed to compose herself. This face held unpleasant memories for the both of them. "Whatever happens to us, whatever you hear from below, don't stop for anything."

"Even if I am certain that you are on the brink of death?"

"Especially then." She said honestly. "Jon will need your help all the more if we cannot, and any significant delay to repair Tyrion's engineering could cause _his_ death, as well as cost the lives of those under him."

Arya tried not to think of all the delays she had been party to since Daenerys had come back from the Wall. She had told Jon two days, but their time was running out.

"Then I suppose you shouldn't dawdle." Daenerys said, her voice becoming frosty.

Arya nodded once, then dipped into a slight and subservient bow. "As you wish, my queen." Her tone was stiff and formal. She pulled her cloak tightly about her and leap over the short hurdle of the hinged door, laying open on the deck. Arya sat down on the crates within, leaning back until she felt the cool metal through the thick fabric of her cloak and she lay on the deck, facing the sky.

Even skeptical of the resurrected banker, the bolstered sailors were not to be outdone. They leapt in after her and took up similar positions, some were less lucky and tried to sit sideways, crushing those beneath them under their weight. She hoped they would leave soon.

"My good Lord Tyrion," she called out loudly, "would you be so kind as to close the door behind us?"

A loud guffaw echoed around them, and Arya caught a glimpse of flashing violet eyes as Daenerys angrily pulled herself up and aboard Drogon.

She regretted her actions, but the Targaryen was going to need all the anger she could get if they were going to fight back the fear that waited for them beyond the Wall.

Daenerys gave a Valyrian command, but it was lost to Arya as Drogon roared and spread his massive wings, trying to take to the air.

There was a flap, and she heard the cries of men running and finding cover. A second, and the ship tilted and swung beneath them, free of its weighty burden. A third, and there was a sharp metallic clang as the link went taut and pulled them up after it.

The world spun, and the sailors trapped alongside her bellowed their shock as everyone tried to find the ever changing down and equalize. Then there was a rush of cool wind and salt spray, and she realized they had done it.

They were flying.

ooooo

For the first hour or two, they were all giddy as children with a new toy. Arya was especially excited when she recognized the blinding white spires of the Eyrie. The novelty soon wore off as the cold air whipped through the chinks in the cage weave and began to chill them. There was nothing around them now but miles and miles of ocean in almost every direction, with the occasional scrap of land appearing to the west. Time dragged on, hour by hour, and the constant chill was beginning to irritate her and make her companions surly. Those sitting with their backs to the north took the brunt of the wind, and soon tired of it as they attempted to trade places with the other occupants.

No one would.

So Arya stepped forth instead, trying to browbeat them into decency. She tugged the edges of her cloak tight around her and sat, staring stonily ahead. Several muttered apologies were uttered, but she ignored them, refusing to speak with anyone as her thin frame was buffeted by the strong gusts. The sun began to dim and set, and the real, icy promise of the North was realized.

It was going to be a long flight.

ooooo

A sudden lurch woke her with a start. Confusion reigned as she stole back her senses from the lingering grasp of sleep.

A horn blared, splitting the air, and then she heard Daenerys shouting, her voice muffled against the wind.

"What did she say?" One of the men shouted at her. She waved him off and listened again.

"...ing to...ive!"

She uttered a curse and wrapped her fingers around the crate lashing. "Hang on to something!"

Then her stomach was in her throat and they were falling; a crazy, dizzying rush as they became weightless and she felt her feet lift off the ground.

The fast moving air cut like a frozen knife, and Arya shut her eyes against it. She heard Daenerys' voice once more.

Light flared all around them, so bright she could see it through the backs of her eyelids, then the cold was burned away by a blast of heat so intense she felt it scald her.

 _Dragonfire_.

There was a noise. It was a harsh, high pitched shriek that rose and grew until it filled her ears, drowning out the whistling of the wind and setting her teeth on edge. It was unearthly, sharp and hollow, a sound so terrible that it made the wretched scrape of sharded glass and jagged steel into sweet music.

The White Walkers were real; they were real, and they were screaming.

A wicked, mirthless smile curved her lips.

The weightlessness intensified, pulling their bodies up until their feet were nearly touching the ceiling of the enclosure. She wondered if Daenerys had signalled Drogon to land, or if he had been injured and was now falling from the sky.

Either way, this was going to hurt.

Arya braced for impact, clenching her teeth to keep from biting through her tongue when they finally hit.

There was a noise like ripping canvas, and the swift descent of the cage abruptly stopped. Their bodies fell instead, stones racing back to the earth with no heed toward shattering.

Arya would not die a stone. She tucked her knees as she felt the motion change, and was rewarded by a bright blossom of pain as her shins and toes hit the sides of the crate seating. She did not hear the snap of bone and was glad she had worn her heavy boots. There was a bellow and a gout of flame, then the cage listed sideways and fell. Churned up snow slipped in through the gaps in the weave. They had landed.

There was more screaming, but she recognized it as human, her companions had not fared nearly as well as she had.

It was dark, a thick, inky blackness that nearly rivaled that of her blindness. She blinked her eyes, willing them to adjust to the night.

They did not.

Listening, she moved closer to the cries of pain.

"How bad off is everyone?" Arya yelled above the din she heard rising all around them. She knew for a fact that there was no possibility of them being fine, as she was. There must have been a battle, but she saw no trace of it.

"Slim's dead." It was the voice of Old Ben, the _Honorro's_ grizzled First Mate, the Captain himself couldn't leave the ship, but Old Ben knew more about ships and sailing than she could learn in two lifetimes. She did not know from whence he came originally, but if he had sprung up from the ocean to climb aboard a ship as a suckling babe, it would not have surprised her.

Slim had been their Lookout, a lanky Pentoshi who scaled the masts and rigging with so little effort that he seemed more like the monkeys of distant Yi Ti than a man. He had an easy, jovial air about him and a reliable weather eye. Losing him was a hard blow, she hadn't been close to any of the sailors, but they were good men, they deserved better than this.

"Anyone else?" Arya shouted again, still not even sure who or what was fighting, much less winning.

"Not dead," Old Ben spoke up, "but Penn's leg is busted somethin awful."

The huge, burly Summer Islander was their Master at Arms, and easily more than twice Arya's size when it came to bulk and muscle. If she had fallen like a stone in that landing, he had been a boulder, carrying him would be no easy thing.

It was still too dark to see anything. She tried to call out to Daenerys, but the noise around them was too great.

More snow slipped down the embankment they had crashed into, pressing in through the tops and sides. The cage spun, Penn screamed, and there was a blast of dragonfire followed by more of those high pitched shrieks she had heard before. The White Walkers were close, and they were practically defenseless.

Drogon's breath had ignited a nearby tree in the process, and the fire brought much needed illumination to the darkness that encased them.

In the flickering light, Arya saw the cage door had been twisted and bent inwards during the impact. It now lay open, half buried under the snow. Better that than stuck shut, imprisoning them.

She scrambled for the opening, stopping short when bright, glowing eyes looked back at her.

Arya froze, her stillness unmarred by even the smallest breath.

"What is _that_?" One of the men cried.

The eyes of the intruder left her face, and began to consider the other men instead.

The broken, injured, honorable men who had come with her.

There was a low, inhuman noise, menacing and deep. Arya knew she had to act quickly before everything fell apart.

"Ben?" She called softly, keeping her voice even, hoping that her low tones could be heard above the din.

"Aye, I'm here…" Everyone was very quiet, even Penn had stopped screaming.

"Bring Penn up here, but do it slowly."

"I'm doing no such thing, 'ave ye gone mad now? Did the fall addle yeh?" Ben was resistant.

"Nymeria's not one of the things we're fighting, Ben," she kept her voice calm, "isn't that right, girl?"

A soft growl as the huge direwolf responded, but Arya saw intelligence reflected in her glowing golden eyes instead of feral savagery.

Predatory intelligence, but intelligence nonetheless.

"You know this... _thing_ , then?" Penn gasped, his pain evident as his normal baritone spiked high.

"She's a direwolf, and her _name_ is Nymeria," Arya reached out a steady hand, even with the wrong face, the wolf would know her, "and she's mine, aren't you, girl?"

The direwolf surged forward, shoving her massive head into Arya's chest and knocking her back. The wolf yodeled softly, then Arya felt the rough, warm wetness of her tongue cancel the cold as she licked her face with broad strokes.

She chuckled, glad to find no broken ribs, and heard shouting behind her.

"Ahh! Gerroff o' 'im! Let's go boys, afore Cress gets et!"

Arya shoved the thick muzzle away, promising them she was fine in between bouts of laughter.

The men were skeptical, but they stopped their forward attack.

"She's your fare to the docks, Penn, the rest of you have just got to keep up."

"We're chasing after that thing through a war?" Old Ben asked.

"She'll lead you around the worst of it," Arya pointed at Penn, memories from her childhood came flooding back. "Nymeria, gloves."

Before the sailors inside could blink, or take a breath to protest, Nymeria's neck and forepaws shot through the opening. Two giant canines looped through Penn's leather belt and she tugged him out into the snow, Arya leapt after him.

"Nymeria, take them to the docks!" She ordered the direwolf, and a bushy silver tail, nearly as tall as Drogon himself, was the last thing she saw as the sailors ran off into the night.

She turned as Daenerys' voice rose above the battle noise. Underneath her, the dragon tried to right himself and fell, his heated body melting into the snow bank as the cage rolled and tangled around his wing.

They were trapped, and Arya could see the slow, lumbering shadows that must have been the White Walkers advancing.

Tyrion's link, the strongest part of the rigging, was now the very thing that kept Drogon from flying.

She climbed to the top of the cage and gripped the weighty chain loops with her gloved fingers. They were slick with frosted mist from the flight, and so cold that she felt the sting of the metal through the stout leather encasing her hands. Arya shimmied up the twisted cable of rope and chain, using every climbing trick she knew to overcome the treacherous surface. When she was nearly to the top, her heart sank. The pins that locked the release mechanism had been smashed in place, and the entire contraption was barely visible through the thick layer of ice that had formed during the flight.

Arya reached behind her, drawing out her dagger with a twist and a click, then she hammered the pointed talon into the frozen barrier, chipping until parts cracked off and fell away, but not nearly enough.

She tried anyway, forcing her will against the bent metal pins that were stuck in place.

It was useless.

Then she heard it, her name. It was issuing forth from her queen's lips as she fumbled with the frozen catches of the harness Tyrion had made for Daenerys to secure her during rough maneuvers.

Daenerys spoke again, but this time it was a warning. Arya turned, just in time to see two glowing blue orbs coming towards her, with a speed unrealized by the rest of their enemy.

It had a sword, it too glowed a faint blue, and as it drew the weapon, there was a screech of cut air and chill death.

What would happen to steel that met a blade from the Land of Always Winter?

What had Old Nan said?

The arc of the thing's swing had reached its apex, there was no time to draw, nor parry. Faint blue trails filled the space above her, and she had the span of a single heartbeat for one final, insane strategy.

Arya stepped back from her perch at the top of the chain, one foot balanced on Drogon. She fell into nothingness, the snow beneath him long since compromised. Her eyes followed the fall of the blade. When just the tip grazed an iron link, there was the sound of a hundred panes of glass shattering all at once.

The cable of rope and chain parted, snapping and exploding as the tension was released. She saw Drogon get to his feet as the cage slipped downhill with all of their food and supplies inside.

No time for that now, the White Walker was looming over her, readying for a second swing. Arya drew her dueling blade, quick as flowing water, but her enemy was faster.

She raised her hand, knowing it was a futile gesture, but needing to try anyway. If she were to die, let it be fighting, she would not accept anything less.

A blinding bar of light slashed across her vision before a deafening crash muted the rest of her senses.

She blinked her eyes furiously, trying to restore sight from the jumbled starbursts and purple afterimages. Arya dropped, tucking and rolling backwards into the freezing slush. Whatever it was, it hadn't killed her and it had come from behind, those two points made enough of an ally for her immediate needs.

The ground shook, the air moved, and the White Walker that had come for her screamed. Was it the dragon, or her ally?

Her ears rung, a high, keening sound, but they were still more sensitive than her eyes. There was no hint of swordplay or nearby clashing steel. The fight had ended.

Instead, she heard a voice, a voice more familiar to her than her own name.

"-thinking? No glass, no torch? That was easily the stupidest thing I have seen anyone do."

Arya pawed at her eyes, were they watering, or was it something else?

The afterimages cleared. Standing in the small valley made by Drogon's imprint, she saw her ally for what he was; taller and broader of shoulder than she remembered, with a full beard and hair longer than he usually kept it, Arya looked at him.

The other differences emerged; shocks of silver white hair streaked throughout, and piercing purple steel eyes that meshed previously unjoined memories into a single bright point in her heart.

"Jon." She breathed.

"No 'Lord Commander' or 'Lord 'o the Crows' from you, eh?" Those new eyes, familiar and not, hardened, and the fiery sword in his hand was suddenly pointed at her. "I thought you were one of the Free Folk, but now I think you something else entirely. Who are you?" He commanded, bringing the point closer, she could feel the heat emanating from it, hot as a bonfire.

How could he stand to hold it?

"I came with Daenerys," she stammered, suddenly remembering what she looked like and wondering if the face had been a mistake after all, "we flew in with the queen and her dragon."

"We?" He countered.

"There were six of us." She explained. "One died in the crash, another wounded, Nymeria took them-"

"How do you know that name?" He demanded angrily.

"'Stick them with the pointy end...'" Her voice faltered as she choked back a sudden and unfamiliar ache in her throat. Long buried sorrow bubbled up, demanding audience. She kept her sword out, just in case, and tucked her right hand between her arm and her ribs, shucking the glove off to reveal clean, bandaged flesh, she needed skin for this.

"What are you doing?" Jon asked, but she continued, hoping he wouldn't stab her, this was exactly the scene she had wanted to avoid.

She felt the mask peel away, then she tucked it within her coat, casting it aside felt wrong, even now.

"I'm Arya, Jon," she searched his face, watching his anger melt to disbelief and stop, unwilling to accept the truth before him, "don't you remember?"

The blade dropped slightly, but he made no move towards her.

"My sister is dead." Jon said, his voice empty. "Ramsay found a pretender and married her, _you_ are _not_ that girl, you are not _Arya_."

She felt her own anger flare, clean and comforting, she had made hundreds believe a lie, she could make Jon see the truth.

"I was there in King's Landing when they took our father's head and stole our family's sword. I tried to come home, tried to find you." A surging torrent of emotion broke free, and she fairly vibrated with it. "I made it all the way to the Twins, certain I could find my mother at least. Uncle Edmure was to be married, but it was all a lie…"

"Everyone knows of the wedding." Jon said, but the seeds of doubt were sprouting and twining behind his eyes.

" _Everyone_ was not a hostage to Joffrey's Hound, being dragged through warzones in hopes of ransom when every piece of family I had was killed as soon as I found them." She brushed a gauntlet across her face, sloughing off the trails of ice. "Even _you_ were lost to me, gone beyond the Wall...I grew sick with grief, and when I could take no more, I left for Braavos. The Faceless Men taught me how to forget, how to become nothing and No One."

"What about Winterfell?" Jon asked, incredulous, but no longer doubting her identity. "You would leave it to Bolton's Bastard?"

"I am not, nor will I ever be, Lady Stark." She informed him coldly. " _Valar morghulis_." A bitter smile before she brought her sword out and trapped his beneath it. "What good was the life of Arya Underfoot, Arya Horseface, what worth did she have to a world where all Starks must die?"

"To me..." Jon said softly, fighting to get the words out, "to me she was worth everything."

Something cracked inside of her, and it was all she could do to keep from running to him and burying her face in his chest, knowing he would tousle her hair like he had a thousand times before and call her "little sister" the way only Jon could.

The way that had made everything all right.

Only this time it wouldn't be. Arya had let down her guard to their surroundings and another White Walker was on top of them, this one taller and hefting an axe with that same eerie glow.

It was coming for Jon.

"Look out!" She screamed, but his sword was trapped under her own and Arya did the only thing she could think of.

She parried.

Her blade shattered, and the pain was incredible. The cold burned so intensely that it felt as though she had reached into a forge and gripped live coals. It spread through her, each joint going numb in turn before she could no longer feel the left half of her body. Arya staggered and fell into what had been melted slush. It was melted no more, and what little remained of her senses reeled from the impact of solid ice.

She saw the bright flash of Jon's sword cut into the White Walker, expecting it to do nothing or at the very most draw blood, she was surprised when the entire foe vanished into a puff of fog, shrieking the same way the slower ones had when Daenerys had bathed them in dragonfire.

"Your sword…"

Jon only shook his head and sighed. "Nevermind what I said before, _that_ was easily the stupidest thing I have seen anyone do."

There was a blast of a faraway horn, it sounded urgent.

"The ships!" Jon remembered, sheathing his glowing sword and reaching out a hand to pull her up. "They're loading the ships. Can you run?"

Arya grabbed it with her bandaged hand, ignoring the sting of her injury as she got her feet under her and stood.

"I can try." She took a few steps and stumbled, unable to feel her foot through the remnants of the White Walker's attack.

"I guess not." Jon said, before he pulled off a glove, put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. "Ghost, to me!" He called, then replaced the thick fur and leather over his hand.

Arya looked for the wolf, but before she could make a full turn and check her periphery, quiet red eyes stared back at her. Ghost was larger than she remembered him, but where Nymeria was nearly the size of Daenerys' dragon, Ghost was only as tall as a garron.

Before she could wonder at the difference, the white wolf had pressed his muzzle underneath her arm and wormed his head through, supporting her.

Jon gripped the back of her swordbelt and hoisted her bodily over his direwolf's back. She protested, but he persevered.

"I'm too heavy, but not you, little sister." He tousled her hair, like he always had, and then rubbed Ghost's thick coat affectionately. "I suggest you get a good grip." Jon waited until she threaded her fingers into the long ruff about the direwolf's neck. "Ghost, take her to the docks."

Then Ghost was running, not a gallop, like the mad dash on horseback that had brought her to Daenerys, no, it was a series of leaping bounds that cleared snowdrifts and the slow, stumbling White Walkers alike. She tried to stop him, to at least slow down and allow Jon to catch up, but Ghost was not her wolf, would not listen to _her_. Instead she marshalled her deadened limbs and held on as best she could.

Arya looked behind her and caught one last glimpse of Jon. Daenerys had kept many of their enemy at bay while Arya sent the sailors to safety, but Drogon had flown off, and there was nothing left to stop them.

Jon was surrounded, with half a dozen of the quick, dangerous White Walkers about to engage him, and a score or more of the shambling ones waiting to take their turn.

Unable to watch any longer, Arya turned away and buried her face in the warm, soft fur of Ghost's pelt.

She wished there were gods left to pray to.


	25. Ch 24 - Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's finally ramp up into Act III, shall we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, this one took me a bit, I got caught when I had to think about how to board frozen ships, and also there was a 20 day trip to the Philippines a week or two after the last chapter. I'm still not entirely back into a writing schedule yet, so shooting for six weeks for the next, but perhaps I will surprise even myself and get back to my four week posting schedule. After all, we've finally transitioned into Act III with this chapter, so everything should be easier going forward.
> 
> Or at least I hope it will...

**Ch 24 - Escape**

He spun the fiery brand of Longclaw about him, gauging distance, before turning to spare one last glance towards his half sibling-

Cousin, if he believed the story of his birth, but to Jon, Arya would always be his little sister.

Saw her glance back, one final look before Ghost took her beyond his sight.

"Fair winds, little sister, fair winds."

Jon turned his attention back to the fight, the first of the White Walkers had come close enough to begin their swings and he stepped and parried in earnest. They were fast, but so was he, and the length of a bastard sword was nearly unmatched by the arsenal the Others regularly used.

"The night is dark and full of terrors," he informed them, blocking high before dropping down on one knee and cutting across a luminescent midsection. His target vanished, with a high shriek and a fog of mist.

"I am the sword in the darkness," Jon told another, swiveling a parry into a downward chop before he caught a shoulder plate and sank through. The armor shattered, then smoked with the rest of the body.

"I am the shield that guards the realms of men." He said, taking a twisting step back and letting an axe swing nearly graze him. The ones with axes were stronger, but always slower, and he took the opportunity to strike at an exposed neck, separating head from body before both dissolved into nothing.

And so it went, until all the White Walkers had been dispatched in turn, but the wights took a far different strategy. When struck with Longclaw, they would only be cut or cleaved, with the wounds catching fire afterwards. They would not ignite and vanish instantly, like their swifter counterparts.

A few had fallen to his blade, or succumbed to the fire that engulfed them, but many more still came. His swings were countered by leather and mail, and what they lacked in speed they made up for in sheer numbers. They massed about him, some missing limbs and on fire, but still moving forward, Jon felt hemmed in, with barely enough room to turn, much less strike. Escape was futile, he would be cut down by daggers in the dark once more.

As they piled upon him, he wished only that Melisandre could be with him for his final moments.

There was a flash and a spark of fire, and the weight that had been pressing down on him vanished into a haze of fog and steam. Flames licked across the ground. Jon stepped away from the burning earth quickly, not because of the heat, but for the sake of his boot soles. Though _he_ was fireproof, his clothing was not, and it was a lesson he had learned through far too many costly wardrobe errors.

Jon sheathed Longclaw and looked around, catching the telltale red silk that could only cover one person. Melisandre was watching him as she leaned against a burning tree. A knowing smile played about her lips, red and inviting as any ember on a cold night.

"Lead us from the darkness, my Lord." She stepped forward and opened her arms wide. "Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path."

He never knew if Melisandre was being serious when she spoke about her god, some things she took as unbending laws of nature, offended if he dared to question her, others, she merely smiled at, as if the subject was a jape meant only for her.

Jon had given up trying to separate the two long ago, and simply accepted whatever she chose to tell him. It was much easier that way.

She knew too much for him to doubt her. It would be during battle, the odds stacked against him to the point where one misstep could mean his death, or worse. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she would find him, and a wash of purifying flame tilted fate back in his favor.

It was strange, and frightening if Jon stopped to think about it, so he didn't. He had numerous willing ignorances when it came to Melisandre, her knack for getting him out of tight spots was just one of many.

He walked towards her, stopping when he was within easy reach. She dropped her outstretched arms and tilted her head, considering him.

"That was foolish of you." She chastised him.

"There was someone I had to take care of." Jon explained, stepping forward.

Melisandre was a creature of vibrance and life, more so than anything else that dwelt this far north, and she fascinated Jon to distraction when not in the midst of fighting. He pulled his gloves off and dropped them into the snow, they were mostly for appearance when he wasn't fighting, the cold barely touched him anymore.

Jon curled a finger and tucked it under Melisandre's chin, lifting it ever so slightly before he leaned in for a kiss. She tasted of warmth, and spices whose names were always on the tip of his tongue but never fully remembered.

"But you knew that."

She made a nonchalant gesture. "I saw a grey girl riding hard to the north, did you see the cage that held them before the dragon snatched it away?"

Jon scowled as he remembered, nodding.

"Battered and broken, that was as dead a horse as any I have seen." She bent low and carefully collected his gloves from the ground. She kept them in one hand, taking Jon's own in the other. "It _was_ your real sister, was it not?" She smiled and began to walk, setting a brisk pace despite her casual conversation. "Those grey Stark eyes are certainly attractive, and quite hard to miss…"

"You saw her?" Jon asked. "Not in the flames, you truly saw her?"

"Do you doubt my visions again, Lord Snow?" Her tone was neutral and Jon had no idea whether she was angry, or simply teasing him.

Flustered and tongue tied, Jon failed to answer.

"I did see her, with these faulty, shallow, near blind eyes non believers trust in so much. She made it past the worst of the fighting, Ghost was the true spirit of agility."

"Then to the docks?" Jon asked, impatient and hopeful.

"I did not follow her that far," Melisandre told him, "you had greater need of me."

"I was not doing that poorly," he argued, "I dispatched the White Walkers."

"And despite your victory, you allowed yourself to be overcome by wights ." She reminded him.

There were three long blasts on the horn, and they both cast a glance in the direction of the ships. Jon saw the problem first and broke into a run, drawing Longclaw as he let go of Melisandre's hand.

The defensive line had broken, and the enemy were swarming the docks.

"We will need much more than Lightbringer to make our way beyond that."

Jon took her words with him as he joined the fray, hoping she would find a way to do just that.

* * *

The crunch of snow gave way to the creak of ice swollen boards as Ghost made it to their makeshift harbor. He slowed to a stop and Arya managed to dismount, having regained most of the sensation in her limbs. Before she did anything else, she needed to locate a weapon. Her daggers would be as useful against these things as her sword was, but the Wildlings must have been using something else if they had lasted this long.

There was a body lying face down in the snow at the start of the dock, a weapon loosely clutched in deathgrip. She walked towards it and knelt to examine it, being no stranger to death or its corpses. The weapon was a crude club, with chunks of what could only be some type of shattered glass embedded into the wood. Dark brows knitted together in confusion, why would glass be important?

She tugged on it until the club came free, then began to stand up. The body stood up with her, bright blue eyes blazing in the darkness.

How could this be? The weaponry was obviously from Jon's supplies, since it was not the glowing blue she had just seen. There was no army she knew of that used anything like this. It had to be from a Wildling, which meant their own dead were now turning against them.

Arya hefted the club, feeling out the strange and uneven balance before she took a swing at her new enemy's unprotected head.

The fractured points sank in with a sodden thud. She jerked the club free and waited expectantly for it to burst into mist or flame or whatever it was that her special weapon was supposed to do.

A dark, half frozen sludge oozed out of the holes in the side of the White Walker's skull, but it kept coming towards her, unaffected and menacing.

Arya noticed it wore a mail vest, but its arms were only covered in fur and soft leather. She could try her bravo dagger, but that was mostly a defensive weapon, and meant for the piercing attacks of the water dance. Puncturing this foe had been of little use.

Reaching behind her, she looped her finger through the ring and twisted out the twin of Daenerys' blade. Arya lay it near the long bones of her forearm and swung out, using the additional force to cut.

The metal went through easily, and didn't shatter. It was almost too easy, and when the resistance she had been expecting wasn't there, Arya lost her balance and only quick footing saved her from falling headlong into the thing.

A hand fell, barely bleeding, and continued to move towards her alongside its owner.

How did they fight these things?

She took a step back and then launched a kick, knocking it back a few steps, but it kept coming. With such soft body parts, tearing this foe apart with her sword would have been little more than a targeting exercise, but she no longer had such a blade.

What to do, should she run? This White Walker was slow, but if she failed to stop one, what would happen when the other fallen allies rose or more came? Probably the same thing she had seen happen to Jon, and she had no flaming sword to call her own.

Arya's decision was made for her when a wild, throaty battlecry split the air and she saw a large warhammer strike her nemesis. The head spun off into the darkness, and the torso flew back, but the limbs remained, feebly wiggling in place.

"Y'all right thar, lass?" A large, bearded man asked her. "Y'are a lass, aren't cha?" He squinted in the darkness.

"For the time being, yes." Arya answered vaguely.

"Tormund Thunderfist." He introduced himself, extending the thundery appendage in greeting.

She took hold of his forearm and shook it, her hand barely able to wrap halfway around it. "Arya," she said of herself, "Arya Stark." There was no point in lying, not here, not if these people knew Jon.

His eyes widened and bushy eyebrows disappeared into his helm. "First I meet myself a queen, now I get a Stark beyond the Wall," he shook his head in consternation, "they'll call me Tall Talker fer th' honest truth."

"I came with a group of sailors on that queen's dragon." She mentioned. "You wouldn't happen to know which ships already have crew, would you?"

Tormund looked confused. "There's none as I can say, they're packed nice'n tight, but no crew."

"How can there be no crew?" Arya asked sharply, shrugging past Tormund and jogging further down the wooden planking, then stopped when she saw the problem.

A milling group of Wildlings and a handful of black clothed men that she assumed were part of the Watch milled about between the ships, some holding torches. Old Ben was shouting down to a few people that were almost willing to obey, but the rest looked on with hard, resistant eyes.

Arya heard Tormund's heavy footfalls catch up to her. "Let me guess," she said aloud, "the Wildlings don't take orders…"

"Not especially, no," Tormund said, "and it's a sure no if'n you call 'em Wildlings."

Arya turned to look at him. "What do you prefer instead?"

"Tormund, as I said." A broad grin flashed.

Arya took a deep, calming breath. "And if I were naming more than just Tormund Thunderfist…?"

"Oh, why din'chu say that before?" Tormund said, feigning enlightenment. "Them's the Free Folk."

"Tormund," she tried again, politely, "might I ask a favor?"

"Depends," Tormund looked at her, "is it a _large_ favor?"

Arya hadn't spent countless hours playing the Lying Game and not learned to read hidden tells, this was an invitation to another time wasting trap. Were these stubborn, thick headed people really worth saving?

Jon and Daenerys thought so, and that had to be enough for the time being. She would play the game, she would play it and win.

"No, actually," she rounded on him and advanced, getting right up next to him at a distance that she hoped was uncomfortably so. "It's a small," Arya held up a hand and held two fingers apart, drawing them closer at every word, "tiny, slight, bit of a thing."

The Wildling's ego deflated considerably at this.

"You wouldn't mind boarding my ship with me, would you, Tormund?" Arya pulled out the few feminine wiles she had stored away for just such an occasion, even going so far as to bat her eyelashes. "Since it's _such_ an insignificant favor."

"Which one's yers?" He asked, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"Let's find out, shall we?" She walked, and Tormund followed.

She parted a group of Wildlings who seemed to be arguing about which ship would sink slowest. Arya looked at the vessels they had to work with.

It was a valid concern. The ships were half frozen, a quick look at the closest one revealed icicles dripping from the canvas and the deck faintly gleaming with a sheen that would prevent any sure footing.

If she couldn't do this, how were untrained Wildlings and the Watch supposed to?

She felt the bulk of Tormund behind her. "I hope you wore your good boots," she remarked loudly, "because that's our ship." Arya pointed to the ship she had just been looking at, icicles and all.

She felt eyes on her, and only the most strident of arguments still continued as she wrapped her gloved hand around the ice encased rope that lined the gangway.

Arya focused down to keeping her hand shut while trying to place the tips of her boots on the tiny wooden slats that still managed to peek up from the ice. She ignored the onlookers, and the quiet increased after each step she took. When she had made it halfway, only one voice could be heard still arguing, and the calm stillness that belonged to either No One or the water dancer came to the fore.

She could do this, felt the deep certainty of it within her.

Arya kept moving, one carefully placed footfall leading to another until her hide covered fingers slipped off the rope and she reached out, trying to grip the railing that surrounded the deck.

She failed, nearly sprawling as her palms slid out from under her and her right arm windmilled for balance. It gave her left the hair's breadth of time needed to free her sheathed dagger and slam it into the bannister top, the angled tip cracking the ice and splintering the wood beneath as the blade bit and held. Muscles tensed around the grip in long embedded memory as feet that could leap rooftops through a bitter storm found purchase beneath her.

A long exhale as the flurry of motion dissipated into equilibrium. She could do this, had done it, it seemed, but the others could not, the others needed help.

Sharp grey eyes hunted the deck, and found a shapeless bundle near the mainsail. The canvas was encased in ice, like everything else aboard, but beneath it…

Arya pressed a foot against the carved spindles of the railing. She pulled her dagger free and pushed off, dropping softly to her knees as she surged forward in a graceful glide across the deck.

The crystalline sheet fell away easily as she folded back the canvas and revealed her prize, a length of coarse, unfrozen rope. She looped it around the thick wood of the mast and tied a quick bowline.

"Tormund!" She shouted over her shoulder, finding another anchor to propel her back to the railing. "Prepare to make good on our bargain."

End of the rope in hand, she slid back to her starting position, considering the fastest way to return to the dock as she did.

It was insanely dangerous at worst, and irresponsibly foolhardy at best. Jon would have cuffed her for even thinking it after all he had risked for her mad dash to the pier, but it was the best she could come up with under the circumstances.

She gingerly wrapped the rope around her right hand, wincing as it brushed against her still healing injury. Sitting back a bit, Arya kicked her legs out to where the gangplank lay and hooked her bootheels around the outside edges.

It was no different than the countless times she had stolen a shield from the Great Hall to use as a sled, wasn't it?

She hoped so.

Arya kicked off with a wild yell, slipping down the icy ramp and gaining speed as she flew over the endless depths of freezing water that she was fervently _not_ thinking about as she tried her best to also ignore the painful cramping of her legs. The strain of holding her in place and keeping her from skidding off the track and into the sea was almost too much for her when the rhythmic, jarring thuds of the raised treads stopped and she smacked into Tormund's waiting knees.

"Well, lass, seems you've brought me a present." Tormund reached down and unwound the rope from her trembling hands. He looked dubiously at the gangway and the twisted fiber in his hands, sighing deeply. "Guess I'll give it a go then, seeing as you've got work to do."

"Work?" Arya asked, not sure what he meant.

Tormund jerked his head towards the rest of the docked vessels. "Are my eyes lyin', or are there five more boats same as this'n?"

"There are…" Arya said slowly.

"Then I s'pose you'll have to pull that trick o' yours a few more times then, eh?" His craggy face broke into a smile, and he winked. "Any orders fer me once I'm up there?"

She stood up, thinking. "Find a way to walk across that deck and open the sails."

"Any ideas fer how to do that?" Tormund asked, one ruddy eyebrow rising.

"None." She breathed, getting ready to dash to the next icy ship. "That's why I'm asking you to."

With a wink of her own, she turned and made straightaway to the next gangplank.

She hadn't had this much fun in a while.

* * *

It wasn't until Arya was nearly finished that Tormund had a breakthrough. She had just shaken out her length of rope when his yell caught her attention. Arya turned to look, and noticed he had also attracted the interest of the slim lines of slowly moving Wildlings trying to make it to the relative safety of her ship and the other three she had scaled before this one. Panic gripped him as he slipped and fell into a storage keg, knocking it over. The sturdy wood cracked open under his immense weight, the top popping off to upend its contents across the deck.

Arya wrinkled her nose. Despite the cold evening air, and even as far away as she was, the familiar aroma of salted fish reached her, redolent of her varied lifespans in and about Braavos. Tormund tried to rise up, slipping down with a resounding thud as he lost his footing amid a small mountain of fish over the ice. He tried again, fell, tried, fell, and the corners of Arya's mouth curled up in amusement as she fought down a broader grin. Then Tormund stood up, unassisted by barrel or railing, and her jaw dropped. He crowed, the victorious 'har' ringing in the air, surefooted and tall as if he stood on dirt and rock instead of ice.

_Salt._ A whispered memory of the house staff of Winterfell scattering handfuls of shining white crystals across the stones and walkways. The crunch beneath the steady soles of Arya Underfoot as she dashed across the grounds and slashed at imaginary foes, no more afraid of falling than Bran was of heights.

Salt would save them, nearly all their food was preserved that way. Dropping the rope, she grabbed the railing and pushed off, using the extra momentum to power a kick into the slats of a nearby keg and punch a hole through the ice and wood. Kneeling, Arya reached in and pulled out a handful of salt, trying to avoid the meat packed within, they would need all the food they could salvage. She threw it across the entryway on the main deck, trying to spread it evenly. She cupped her hands and shouted into them.

"Throw salt on the ice," she suggested, because ordering them to was impossible, "the barrels are full of salt!" She repeated herself several times in multiple directions. It would have to do for now, Arya had one last ship to scale.

Grabbing up her rope once more, she sat back and kicked down the gangplank, sparing a glance towards the land side of the pier and almost immediately wishing she hadn't.

Their enemy was nearly upon them, White Walkers spilling out onto the frozen wood. Some were newly risen, fallen Wildlings that now marched to the beat of an otherworldly drum; others were partially decayed, their dangling limbs plodding forward by sheer enchantment. Whether former friend or decrepit foe, both held eyes of shining blue menace, the promise of conversion a worse fate than any torment dredged from the depths of the Seven Hells.

Arya's attention was divided as she raced down the ramp of the fifth ship, trying to form a plan while not falling to her death, when she first heard the screams. Cornered by the horde of animate dead, the Wildlings swarmed the ropes and her heart sank as she heard not one but several splashes, terror overthrowing caution as the impatient refugees created more enemies in their haste. She kicked her heels into the frosty dock and stood, desperately hoping that whatever resurrected the chilled and drowning bodies didn't know how to swim.

She pelted towards the shoreline, doubling her effort as she heard Tormund shout her name.

Their ship was the closest to the advancing enemy line, and because it had been the first she had scaled, it was already mostly full of people.

Terrified, trapped, screaming people.

Arya drew her knife and bravo dagger, sprinting for all she was worth as she nervously searched the lines for any ethereal, steel shattering blue blades.

There were two at the back, rapidly moving to the front, and she ran past the entrance to her ship, resigned to her fate.

"Tormund!" She called out behind her. "Get those sails down and cut the lines or we'll wish we were just dead!"

Stopping to make a stand and buy them time, Arya took a modified duelist's stance to accommodate her shortened blades. Her blood surged and her heart thundered in her ears as she waited for them to come at her.

Dany would be so angry with her, but she would understand.

Eventually.

Thankfully for her steel, the slower White Walkers closed first, she felt leather and bone cleave beneath her keen edges with little more resistance than parting water. She crouched and drove upwards, spilling putrid, half rotted gut ice from a falling body. At the height of her extension she caught sight of those cursed blue blades again.

Arya sighed, and prepared herself for the inevitable end. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, if she focused and moved with every ounce of speed she had, she could wrest the weapon from them and use it as her own.

A memory of the debilitating cold exuded by the blade gave her pause, but what other choice did she have?

The thump of her heart intensified, and it took her a moment to realize that the sound was coming from outside of her body.

From overhead.

_Drogon._ Arya realized, tilting her head back to look as she slashed off another body part. She could see the Targaryen queen, short lengths of silver white hair cascading around her head in the rushing dive.

Could Daenerys see her? She remembered the speed of the fall, the rushing pull of the wind at her whole body.

No, she wouldn't be seen, she'd be obliterated with the rest of their enemy.

Her decision made, Arya kicked off the still fighting corpse and slid backwards across the ice, using the momentum to turn and force her feet to grip the treacherous surface of the dock.

She felt the beginnings of a warm breeze on her face and realized belatedly that she wouldn't be fast enough. Arya sifted through her thoughts, trying to find a meaningful way to say goodbye to Dany, if only in her mind.

Something inhumanly strong tackled her from behind, she thought back to the advancing blades and the possibility of her death taking the form of something far worse than oblivion chilled her worse than any cold.

Taken to the ground, her arms pinned beneath her, she could only pray for the sweet kiss of fire to free her from the horrors of joining the blue eyed fiends.

She waited, for the painful shock of cold and the blessed cleansing flame, but all she felt was weighty pressure and the acrid scent of singed fur.

Muffled screeching reached her, the delightful, horrifying shrieks she had experienced watching Daenerys command Drogon's breath or Jon swing his flaming sword into the scourge that tried to annihilate them.

The weight vanished and a large but familiar muzzle wedged beneath Arya, trying to lift her slack body. She gripped handfuls of thick fur and pulled herself upright, sparing a moment to bury her face in the direwolf's coat.

_Nymeria_. Arya spent a moment luxuriating in survival and reuniting with her wolf before she looked back to where the White Walkers had been swarming moments before. All that remained was blackened and steaming wood. She looked down and saw wet planking beneath her boots, realizing the ice had melted under Drogon's onslaught. There was a flash of motion as canvas unfurled all around her, the fire had freed the ships as well. The motion on board was reminiscent of a normal crew of sailors, inexperienced sailors, but sailors nonetheless.

A phalanx of wolves led a group of Watch and Wildlings rushed through the charred massacre and swamped the dock. Nymeria howled in greeting and Arya squinted, seeing a smallish body, capped with an unruly mess of auburn hair, whose arms locked around the neck of a silver direwolf, its coat nearly twin to Nymeria's.

Bran's wolf.

Bran was alive.

Not far behind was another crowd of White Walkers. Even with the dragonfire provided thaw, there would not be nearly enough time for everyone to board the vessels and cast off before they were cut down and converted.

Just when she thought all hope was lost, she spotted Jon's flaming sword, bright amidst the gloom of the chill sky. Near him was a woman dressed all in crimson silk, with hair so vibrant it made the Tully red of her mother and siblings look drab by comparison. She raised her hands and shouted a word Arya didn't recognize. A wall of fire shot up, separating their people from most of the White Walkers and giving them time to board the ships. She watched them run past her, the majority getting as far away from their enemy as possible before taking the time to race up the gangway. It meant that most people overlooked the vessel she claimed as her own.

Except for the wolves.

Bran's wolf pelted up the walkway, followed close behind by two small people with eyes so green she barely noticed anything else about them, except that one was a girl. She was strong and lanky as Arya, with a glass tipped spear strapped to her back. She moved with the grace of a hunter despite the awkward weight of the boy she supported, his arm sprawled across her shoulders as his legs feebly pumped alongside her.

Ghost refused to board, skittering back and forth at the base of the ramp. Jon had probably told him to leave in spite of his instinct to protect, and he was waging a war against himself because of it.

Jon and that strange red woman were the only things fighting off several dozen of the slow, lumbering White Walkers, and all around them the fire licked and spread across the quickly drying wood. They retreated as Jon slashed and parried and his crimson accomplice drove the flames ever higher. White Walkers fell one and two at a time, but it never seemed to be enough to grant them a clear escape. There was a crash and the sound of shattering wood, a barrel full of something shining and viscous was flung impossibly far from the docked vessel and landed midway between Jon's retreat and where she stood alongside Nymeria and the prancing Ghost. Her eye caught the arc of a lit torch as it was flung out into the spreading pool, instantly igniting it.

They must have found a cask of lamp oil.

A collective cheer came from her ship, a distinctive 'har' strident amongst the ruckus. Flames surged, a charring holocaust encasing the White Walkers from both sides. Unfortunately, they had also trapped Jon and the mysterious woman.

A spark of indomitable will lit her from within. Bran was alive, and Jon was still alive, at least for the moment, and they were going to get out of here no matter how many of those undead things came for them so they could talk about everything they had just learned and make sense of it all.

"Ready to lose some more fur?" She turned to her wolf, who looked back with perfect understanding. She dropped her head a little to accommodate her slight rider as Arya leapt and climbed the rest of the way, slinging a leg over the top of Nymeria's shoulders and settling in before tucking her body close to the back of her wolf's neck, her view of their intended targets bracketed by fluffy grey ears.

A quick glance and her ship was the only one left, the members of the Watch and Wildlings weren't nearly as idiotically heroic as her family seemed to be. The heat from the blaze rose in the cold air and kicked up a brisk wind. The sails strained like aurochs in their traces, taut lines pulling hard against the disintegrating wood. She spotted a wild red beard towering above everyone on deck.

"Tormund!" She roared. "If I don't make it back, cut the lines and get them out of here!" Ghost still looked close to bolting, Arya lowered her voice, but kept an edge of steely command. "Ghost, stay with Bran, I'll be back with Jon." A flash of defiant teeth as his muzzle wrinkled. She didn't have time for this.

"Go!" She shouted the order and pointed to the gangway, Nymeria almost turning to face her smaller brother.

The white wolf shrank back, chastised, before slinking away and loping up the ramp to the ship.

She heard a scream and suddenly Nymeria was running, smooth bounds that ate up the distance between Arya and her brother in a matter of strides. A leap through the air, the heat of the flame easily felt through the thick soles of her boots. Burnt fur tickled her nose and she silently promised to make it up to Nymeria with a large, juicy cut of a fresh kill once they were out of the land Beyond the Wall and safe.

But first Jon needed to be saved, as he had saved her.

A White Walker came for them, a single bite fragmented its skull and shoulders and they fell to the floor in chunks. She scanned the writhing mass, confused when Jon's sword was not easily spotted.

In the middle of a crowd, a newly risen Wildling suddenly caught fire, and she was able to piece together what had happened. The scream had been from the red woman at his side. Jon was standing above her crumpled form, pressed from all sides by slowly shuffling corpses clumsily swinging bladed weapons with deadly intent.

"Nymeria!" She hissed, and the wolf grabbed a White Walker around its midsection, jerking her head across with such force that it bowled several of Jon's attackers over and gave them an opening.

"Jon!" Arya screamed at him, needing her brother to come with her, unwilling to lose him, to face that empty, black well of grief that would swallow her whole without him. She reached out as he sheathed his flaming sword, but instead of taking her hand, he pulled the strange woman upright, wrapping his hands around her waist and lifting her as high as he could manage. Stunned, Arya reacted, hauling the semi-conscious woman up with her and throwing her across her lap, keeping her left hand gripped tightly around the ornately tooled leather belt she had about her waist.

Then Jon fell underneath a crowd of pale, blue eyed demons and all she could remember was screaming his name over and over again as she reached into the melee and waited for the familiar feel of his hand in her own, not caring about the blades that cut into her wrist and arm.

For Jon, she would wait forever.

Fingers closed over her own, holding tight with a grip she knew instead of the aching, terrible strength of the White Walkers' frozen hands.

"Nymeria, go," she pleaded, and the wolf backed away. Arya pulled with her legs, refusing to be unseated or abandon this woman that somehow meant more to Jon than his own life.

Then his mottled hair emerged, familiar and not, alongside widened eyes that somehow mirrored her own and Dany's all at once. Then two hands clasped her arm and she leaned back, tugging with everything within her as she hauled Jon up alongside her.

Nymeria, sensing the additional rider and the success of their mission, bulled through a crowd of White Walkers and began to run, knocking shambling corpses left and right in their haste, and then the wall of fire rose up before them. It seemed diminished, compared to what it had been before. The direwolf leapt and they flew, cold air negated by the flames below them and the warmth of victory.

One long stride, then another, each step breaking a link of the chain their foes had tried to bind them with. They were within reach of the ship when a fierce gale stirred from nothing. Arya chanced a look back, and watched the fire gutter to nothing in the intense wind. Blue bladed warriors led the charge, dashing through the formerly impenetrable defense as their slower allies followed. What had been her ship tossed in a tempest's fury, the sails a hair's breadth from tearing away and falling into the ocean.

"We're not going to make it, are we?" Jon asked quietly from his place behind her, his voice held a gentle resignation.

Not even the dark gift of the Many-Faced God could save them now.

"Tormund!" She screamed, fighting off the beginnings of panic. "Cut the lines! Cut the lines and sail!"

"Ah'll not kill ye!" He refused.

"Go or they'll take us all!" Arya pleaded, her voice hoarse. She heard the popping snap of the dock ropes being cut, one at a time. After everything she'd done, it had all come up short.

She had come all this way just to fail.

But Nymeria had other ideas. The direwolf didn't stop, didn't slow, did nothing but speed up until Arya's vision clouded and blurred the same way they had in her in the airborne trip that rushed them here to begin with. Nymeria was sprinting now, her goal the wooden gangway that lead up to the ship. Tormund had let it stand, refusing to give up on them entirely. The base supports skittered across the wooden dock as the ship slipped away from them, the gap of icy water between them and safety increasing with every passing moment. The thin platform had nearly dropped off when world tilted around them.

Nymeria had made the ramp with no time left to actually climb it.

Speed and momentum were the only allies left available, and the direwolf used them, springing off the flexing wood and sailing through the air, paws stretched out in front of her as if she could glide like Dany's children.

A smashing sound as they half landed, half fell onto the deck and railing. Desperate but friendly hands gripped her and it took all of her self control remember she was now safe and not to fight them off.

As safe as anyone could be, on a ship in the middle of a wintry Northern sea with an inexperienced crew and little idea of where they should go next.

Arya stood, trying her best not to tremble as everything that had just happened washed over her.

It was all right now, they had made it. Nymeria shook herself after rising up on all fours, a large swath of hair was missing from her back and haunches, and nearly half of her bushy tail was naked, but other than some patches of angry red skin, she looked relatively unscathed, considering they had dodged a blast of dragonfire and leapt over a wall of intense flame, twice.

Jon was bent over the strange red woman, talking quietly to her. It was then that Arya noticed the spreading blotch of dampness around her midsection, soaking into the crimson silk that she wore.

It was blood.

"She's hurt." Arya announced loudly, rushing over to kneel beside her brother. "Someone get me some water and gauze, maybe a needle and some gut."

Jon put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head.

"No," he disagreed, "I'm going to need a torch."

Someone pressed a torch into her hand, she didn't see who.

"She's not dead, Jon, just look at her eyes, they're not blue they're-" Arya stopped, staring. The brilliant ruby at the woman's throat sparkled with a light from within, faint and flickering.

"What _is_ she?" Arya asked, stumbling back and letting fear of the unknown rule her better judgement.

"Her _name_ is Melisandre." Jon growled, his tone angry in a way she had never heard. "She is a part of me, a part of what is yet to come, and if she dies, there was no point in saving me."

A blast of dragonfire consumed the dock and the remaining ship ignited like kindling, flames rising high and casting almost unbearable brightness upon them. The woman groaned, arching, the gem shone, and all around them shrieks rose into the night. Arya looked at her brother's eyes, wild and unrecognizable in the reflected firelight, and handed him the torch.

Was it the right thing to do? She didn't know

After what she had just seen, it was clear that Arya Stark knew nothing.


	26. Ch 25 - Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry about the delay, hit block, some mild depression, and a shit ton of overtime hours for The Job From Hell (which is now Almost completed). Verbs/Valyrian of note are: Jumbagon, the infinitive for "to wait for," and the perfect conjugation (to my best knowledge, anyway) of gienagon, "to heal." All other words can be found at: https://wiki.dothraki.org/High_Valyrian_Vocabulary

**Ch 24 - Dany**

Her heart wanted to follow, to circle and defend and keep anything from harming the half frozen ship that carried the stubborn Northerner that had ensnared it.

But Dany was a queen, and a queen's duties trumped selfish desire every time. Beyond that, the storm had made it nearly impossible to keep pace with them. It was much harder for Drogon to keep her aloft amid a tumultuous morass of rain and hail. Nevermind that, despite the heavy furs she wore, Dany was nearly frozen through.

So she had soared south, looking for a bit of land that seemed familiar enough that she could identify it on a map once she found the _Honorro._

The sun rose, the beginning rays of dawn cool at first, but then endowing her with blessed warmth as the fiery golden ball ascended into the sky. Dany turned, following it into the choppy, green grey expanse that now held everything that mattered to her in its questionable hands.

By the time she spotted another large, winged creature, it was well and truly morning, and the ocean mists were beginning to burn away. Rhaegal dove in and out of the cloud banks, occasionally falling into a dive and skimming the top of the water. He repeated the task a few times before Dany realized that he was hunting. Captured porpoise in talon, a breath of dragonfire crisped the flesh before he took ravenous chunks out of it with serpentine precision.

Then she saw it, her ship. She of course owned the rest of her fleet, but the _Honorro_ had carved a very particular niche within her. Dany was beginning to think of it as home.

A few touches with the heels of her hands and feet, and Drogon descended, alighting on the deck with an all too familiar crunch of splintered wood.

The first voice she heard was Tyrion's.

"Don't just stand there, jaws agape, get the tar and patch this!" He waved at the crewmen. Pointing and shouting furiously, he badgered the deck hands until they were stirred to sufficient activity, then he turned to the now dismounted Dany.

"What happened, where is everyone?" He asked anxiously, his gaze wandering to the severed, arm thick lanyard that had held the cage.

"Wights, their masters, and an extremely poor attempt at landing."

"And the whereabouts of my invention?" Tyrion asked. His voice was hopeful, but his posture was that of a man preparing for a blow.

"Dented, bent, and severed, but intact." Dany promised. "It was still full of supplies and I dropped it onboard Arya and Jon's ship before making my way back."

"And what, my dear, but sometimes reckless liege, did it take to shear off the coupling?" He toddled over and grabbed the end of the twisted chain, keeping a wary eye on the snorting dragon it was still attached to as he inspected the cut. "It wasn't Drogon's teeth, and you have no Valyrian steel…" He brought it closer, scant inches from his face.

Tyrion dropped the link like a white hot brand, hurriedly stepping back as if he expected it to jump up and attack him. "What in the Seven Hells shatters metal as if it were pane glass?"

"The wights have…" Dany searched for a word, "captains, after a fashion. They are armed with a metal I have never seen before." A metal that had nearly cleaved her-

What _was_ Arya to her? She had felt desire, fleeting and competitive though it was, for her sellsword paramour, a brusque, convenient, half loyalty to Hizdahr when she didn't pity him, and loving devotion for her Sun and Stars, but only _after_ she had overcome the terror.

Arya was something else, her sworn sword, certainly, though that blade had been lost somehow in the brief glimpses she caught of the refugee ship.

The others had all been for power, power over the sellswords, power over Meereen, and power enough to take back the Iron Throne. Her initial attraction to Cressio had been partly fueled by the promises only the Iron Bank could grant, but when the face had vanished…

The feelings still remained, and were increasing despite the betrayals, forays against impossible odds, and geographical distance between them.

It was something to consider.

"Your grace?" Tyrion intruded into her thoughts. "You were explaining about the weapons…"

She would consider it later.

"Yes, thank you, Lord Tyrion," Dany tried to get her mind ordered. "The weapons glow with a blue light the same as the creature's eyes. One nearly struck Arya down, but she dodged at the last moment and it severed the chain instead."

Severed it, and freed her and Drogon for a much more devastating aerial assault.

"I'm not sure if 'severed' is the correct word, your grace." Tyrion countered, taking a slow step towards the metal. "More like...'burst apart in a thousand tiny shards.'"

"Fine," Dany said, worry and irritation getting the best of her, "whatever word you desire, that is what happened to the metal. Meanwhile, Jon and Arya and a large group of refugees with little to no sailing experience are trying their best to navigate winter seas and somehow come ashore in Westeros proper."

Tyrion tore his attention away from the broken chain.

"Did you use the sun like I told you to?"

Dany nodded, and Tyrion headed back to her little used cabin. He pulled the door open and gestured for her to enter.

"After you, your grace." He insisted.

Dany entered first. She ignored the red brown stain on the wall that would not seem to scrub out and instead pulled the catch on the map table. It opened at the hinge and she locked it in place before unrolling the hide map they had been navigating with.

Tyrion stood next to her in the cramped space, his shoulders barely clearing the table.

"What was the last piece of land you saw before you came out to sea?"

She traced a finger down the coastline until she found an eastward jutting peninsula that looked familiar.

"That one."

"Ah, Widow's Watch." He said approvingly. "We're not in as bad a shape as I had feared, these storms are not the sort one can scoff at while sipping wine, though I have certainly tried."

"I suppose one way to keep away fear of drowning is to instead drown in your cup." Dany riposted, the banter and mundane navigation report helped her feel a sense of normalcy.

"That's the spirit," Tyrion said, "next time I'll have you try it with me instead, there's nothing sorrier than drowning your sorrows and then drowning alone."

"I have enough faith in our captain that you'll have to wait until we land in Westeros to commence dying, Lord Tyrion, until then, tell him to turn west and keep north of the island chains as we head inland."

"Don't feel like winning the Sistermen over?" Tyrion asked. "I don't blame you, nasty, cross lot that they are, though they stew a decent chowder…"

"The next time you lust after a change in diet, Lord Tyrion, I'll have Drogon toast you up a fresh haunch of porpoise." Dany said dryly. "Chewing the fat should keep your mouth fairly occupied for some time."

Tyrion cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the maps. "Speaking of body parts, your grace, the Neck is not the most attractive place to come ashore, unless you are partial to swamps. Hopefully we can use that to our advantage, so long as the crannogmen aren't feeling feisty."

_Crannogmen..._

_"_ They shouldn't be," Dany said, "I met a few of them along with the Wildlings, they seemed pleasant enough, if not a bit odd."

"Odd in what way?" Tyrion asked. "Besides the obvious of just being north of the Wall, which is odd all on its own."

"They talk of visions and greendreams, and know things that I'm not sure anyone else in this day and age remember."

"Things like...?"

"Like the fact that Eddard Stark's bastard is actually my nephew."

The dwarf fell silent at that, a look of consternation on his face. Dany had once thought his scarred features grotesque, but hardly noticed them now that she knew what lay beneath the man's meager body.

"So _that's_ why you were in such a hurry to save them."

"Last I checked I had run out of family members, Tyrion."

"You're forgetting the other one." Tyrion said, after a moment of silent deliberation.

"What _other_ one?" Dany asked sharply. "What have you been keeping from me?" The dragon within her stirred and growled.

"Nothing of much note, your grace," Tyrion said quickly, trying to backtrack, "some boy, little more than Jon's age, hidden with Jon Connington and trying to pass himself off as a blue dyed Tyroshi to hide the near lavender hue of his eyes."

" _Lavender_ eyes, Lord Tyrion? When were you going to inform me that my brother's dear friend had a purple eyed ward the same age as Elia's dead son?" Other than the outburst that had pinned the traitor Cressio, Dany was not usually a violent person, but betrayal was nearly afoot, and her fingers itched to draw her dagger.

"He doesn't have _dragons,_ your grace, any false legitimacy he may earn in King's Landing after trying to kill off my nephew will be obliterated the moment you fly-"

"'The dragon has three heads,' Tyrion, or have you forgotten the information I entrusted you with, you have all of mine, though I seem to be short crucial parts of your own."

" _He_ is not the one that brought dragons back from the dead." Tyrion said, words loud with affront. " _He_ is not the one that forged an army from nothing. He was _given_ a pack of sellswords and _told_ that he was destined to rule without ever knowing what it _means_ to actually win the trust of people and lead men into battle. He may be your nephew, or he _may_ just be the byblow of some silver haired Lysene whore and one of your distant, watered down, thrice removed cousins that got together in a brothel around the same time the Rebellion broke out. Either way," his voice softened as his anger started to fade, "he could not be convinced to use his resources for anything other than an attempt to win the throne and overtake King's Landing. You and I both know there are _far_ worse things threatening us beyond a terrible king mistreating his subjects, drowning the city in debt, and ravaging the countryside and populace on the eve of Winter."

"You speak those horrors as if they mean nothing." Dany said.

"Daenerys," Tyrion said, dispensing with titles in favor of frankness, "if those things win and make it south, they _will_ mean nothing."

"Tyrion, I-"

Shouting outside caught both their attention, and Dany quickly rolled up the map while Tyrion picked up the delicate bronze navigational tools they had been using. She flipped the table up and they were out on the deck in moments, trying to find the source of commotion.

"Braavosi fighting ships off the port bow!" The lookout shouted down.

"Braavos? What would Braavos want with us? I thought we still had the blessing of the Iron Bank."

"'If the dragons are tamed,'" Tyrion recited, "'you must give the queen the gift.'"

"Did we not _just_ have a conversation about withholding information?" Dany growled in frustration. "Where did you hear that from?"

"Those were our dear Faceless Man's orders, my liege, and I believe I _did_ tell you, but you seemed to be more concerned over a certain pining Northerner imprisoned belowdecks than what Braavos thinks of your dragons. I did not, however, think that word of our battle would have spread _quite_ so quickly." He admitted. "Their informant network must be stronger than I had assumed."

"But are they here for their servant, or for me?" Dany wondered aloud, before the wartime queen within reasserted herself. "Either way, there's little they can accomplish, in case they have forgotten, I have _dragons._ "

As if by unspoken command, Rhaegal swooped past overhead, stopping his hunting patrol to let forth a gout of warning flame close enough to catch the Braavosi flag afire.

"Well," Tyrion muttered, "there goes all chance of negotiation, and possibly our borrowed coffers."

The ship was still a ways off, but Dany could see the outlines of archers nocking arrows and the thin cloud of angry, metal clad insects sent forth to chase her dragon.

This tactic had been used before without success, the dragon's scales were harder than most forged steel, and deflected the arrowheads the same as plate.

Except these arrows stuck to their target.

Enraged, Rhaegal spat fire, and the ship along with its doomed marksmen caught like tinder, imploding into a plume of white hot fire as it listed sternward and began to sink.

Seemingly satisfied, flighted green death swooped lazily around the smoking column, picking a new target at his leisure and angling his trajectory.

Dany felt a mixture of pride and horror. Well crafted barbs aside, her children were extremely capable of protecting and defending themselves, even without her commands. The horror came from the ruthless, unfeeling efficiency with which they did so.

There was a stutter in the steady rhythm of dragon wings in flight, and she looked up. Rhaegal's controlled strafe had become an ungainly plummet, stopped only when his massive body hit the deck and mainsail of the ship closest to them.

The shockwave from the impact rippled through her. Dany watched the mast topple, and as the canvas fell over her child like a death shroud, she felt the chill prickle of real, undeniable fear.

What had been on those arrows?

"Get over there, move!" She screamed, her voice harsh in her throat as the fought the urge to dive over the edge of the railing and swim.

The sailors tacked back against the wind they had been travelling with, angling instead for the remnants of her own half sunken vessel.

So did the remaining Braavosi ship.

Enraged, Dany put her fingers to her lips and was about to summon Drogon back from hunting when she felt Tyrion's gentle fingers on her arm.

"Your grace, you can't."

She ripped her arm from his grasp. "Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do."

Tyrion was unwavering. "If they dropped Rhaegal out of the sky, what do you think they're going to do to Drogon, or to you?"

" _Archers, ready yourselves_." The voice was Ser Barristan's, Missandei had taken to teaching him Valyrian to better command the troops, and Westerosi to Grey Worm that he might better aide council sessions in Westeros.

Colored flags sent communications to the rest of the Unsullied fleet. The eunuch warriors had used their down time at sea well, and many had taken up the bow in addition to the spear, practicing on makeshift ranges arrayed across the decks. Among her own vessel, both Grey Worm and her knight had reported at least a score of crack shots.

It was these archers that started shooting first as the other vessel came into range, able to hit targets farther and more accurately than the rest of her soldiers. Most hit wood, but there were several screams that meant some had struck their marks.

After the first volley, the _Honorro_ became open to attack as well. Their ship was much larger than the small Braavosi frigate, and the higher sides had afforded them a bit of headway.

She heard the first pocking thuds of arrowheads into the starboard planking just before Ser Barristan and Grey Worm shouted down the ranks to get shield carriers forward. The Unsullied and Ser Barristan the Bold were legendary for a reason, and it was this skill they called upon now.

Metal pinged against the stout shields of the Unsullied as the Braavosi archers sent a return volley. The shields did their work, and not one of her men were harmed.

Weak wind half filled the canvas and Dany paced behind the lines, feeling useless as her Unsullied arced arrows over the shield wall while the sailors did their best to harness every last gust.

Eventually her feet took her to the prow, and she found herself climbing the planked steps until she was at the very front rail, staring out past the carved figurehead at her son, still floundering weakly in the water.

Some of the other ships had sent small rowboats, and they had already arrived since her flagship was at the front of their armada and much further from the ship that Rhaegal had crashed into. She could see supplies and people being pulled off the ship and out of the water, but none of these tiny coracles could save her dragon.

"Your grace," a small voice behind her said, "If an arrow takes you, you will be no good to Rhaegal, nor the rest of your dragons, nor the rest of your people."

"MIssandei!" Dany said, whirling and stepping down immediately. "What are you doing on deck? It is far too dangerous for you, if you were to be injured…"

_Or killed…_ Her mind supplied, though she dare not speak it aloud.

"Then your scribe and translator would be injured," the Naathi girl said, matter of factly, "not the future Queen of Westeros."

Anyone else, she would have snapped at, but not Missandei, not after everything they had been through together, and everything the girl had sacrificed for her.

"Come with me," Dany said, herding her back towards the entrance to the common crew quarters. "We will both wait someplace safe then."

She entered behind the wisp of a girl and realized she had never been in the quarters that the rest of her staff and army shared. Despite the large amount of people firing offensive missiles and defending with sheets of steel, there were still many, many bodies belowdecks. It did not stink of waste and decay, as some of the slave holds she had seen did, but there were too many occupants living in too close proximity to prevent the lingering smell of humanity that permeated every plank and beam.

Dany was suddenly ashamed for thinking her cabin had been anything other than glamourous.

The Targaryen queen did not feel that way for long, raised voices drew her attention back to the action above.

"Missandei, stay here." Dany requested. "With enough luck, we have reached Rhaegal first, and I fear for anyone coming near him."

She bolted up the stairs and crashed into Tyrion as she set foot on deck. The dwarf tripped. His arms, which had been full of paper and calculation tools, opened to stop his fall and the entirety of what he had been working on spilled across the floor.

Dany stooped to help him as the wind caught the papers, trying her best to keep them from taking flight. She noticed the schematic quickly sketched across it. It was a heavily modified duplicate of the pulley system he had used to raise the supply cage up for a test run.

This version looked much bulkier, and Dany supposed it was for the added weight of her dragon.

It was oddly silent, and Dany realized she no longer heard the twang of bowstrings firing, and the shield carriers stood quietly at rest.

Waiting.

She handed the papers back to Tyrion wordlessly, then walked over to Ser Barristan and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Your grace?" The snowy maned knight asked.

"Why have we stopped fighting?"

"There is no one _to_ fight, your grace." He explained. "Every man aboard that ship is now dead or dying. Those who live are in no shape to hold a bow, much less shoot with one."

Could it have really been that easy? Weren't these the Faceless Men they had been so terrified of?

She sensed a trap, but it would have to wait, bereft of crew to man the rigging and tiller, the Braavosi ship drifted aimlessly with the waves, sails slack and rippling in the wind.

The water began to clear of enemies as the Braavosi, outmatched and outnumbered, came about and set a course for retreat. A few ships remained. still and unmanned as their competitor, but at each she wondered: Would that ship hide the assassin sent to kill her?

She sent a fleeting wish that her own assassin were here, instead of sailing a less than seaworthy vessel down the northern coast.

"Your grace?"

"Yes?" She turned.

It was Tyrion, hands now bereft of sketches. Dany noticed a group of Unsullied and regular crew attaching wood and metal to their masts while other, less mechanically inclined sailors uncoiled rope thicker than her arm.

"They are preparing to lower the first of the row boats, I thought perhaps you would wish to be aboard it."

He was right, of course, her body itched to do _something_ instead of just waiting in fear.

"I would like that very much." She said, stepping past him with a feeling of useful elation. "Thank you, Tyrion."

He accepted the dismissal, going over to where their men were busy constructing his invention. "No, no, no." He scolded, "That part goes _above_ the tackle."

Near the railing, a group parted as she was spotted, and Dany walked through them with her best sense of queenly decorum, despite her nervousness. Whatever waited for her on that ship would remain the same, unaffected by her calm or panic.

She took a step up onto the railing and jumped the short distance down onto the swinging boat. The Targaryen queen wobbled uncertainly, sure that if it had been Arya leaping, she would have found some way to make it look roguishly graceful. Dany counted her blessings, however, picturing Tyrion's stubby frame trying to catapult itself across the gap as the rest of the occupants boarded. Each one shook and tilted the wooden frame, which sometimes came perilously close to tipping. She was glad for the mental distraction of her stout counselor's antics.

A shouted word and they were lowered with a jerk and a sudden drop before the pulley system took their weight.

They hit the water with a hollow splash, and one man began to row them towards Rhaegal and the sinking ship.

Several more rowboats hit the surface behind them, and Dany glanced back to see Selmy aboard one, with Missandei's slight form hidden behind him.

She had tried to keep the girl out of danger, but if anyone could help with her son, it would be the two of them. Tyrion as well, but his skills were better put to use in the physical logistics of lifting a dragon out of the ocean.

They finally pulled within reach of the waterlogged hulk. Dany was on her feet in an instant, leaping across the water with no regard to falling, she had much larger things to fear. She landed hard on the deck, weaving through bodies busily harvesting what remained of the salvageable goods as she headed straight for her child.

She pulled the fallen sail back, revealing her fallen dragon. His normally bright, golden eyes were dull and half lidded, and she could see the irregular rise and fall of his chest as he struggled for breath. Dany ran her hands across the spiny crests atop his head, scratching them softly.

"Nuha raqnon munnon issa." She whispered dejectedly, burying her face in Rhaegal's neck. Even his usual heat was dampened to a slight warmth.

Tears struck his scales and ran down, refusing to even steam. The gentle pelting stopped after only a handful of drops, Dany was the blood of the dragon, she would not waste this slim margin of time with useless weeping.

Footsteps behind her, and Dany heard Ser Barristan's low tones discussing arrow removal with Missandei before he executed his plans with a grunt of exertion. Underneath her, Rhaegal didn't even react.

Dany composed herself and stood up, looking at the massive barb that the knight was slowly rotating in his hands. The metal, at least, steamed with heat in the cool ocean air. He sniffed lightly.

"Poison, though what kind I do not know."

The razored fins were dark and marbled, a ripple that, unlike the patina on Arya's dark blade, was made from the metal itself.

"Valyrian steel." The knight said, impressed. "They went through a lot of trouble and expense, I've never seen the steel made into arrowheads, far too costly."

"Unless you are the Iron Bank." Dany said quietly.

"But they sent the girl as their emissary." Ser Barristan reminded her.

Dany didn't answer him immediately.

"Something has changed, hasn't it?" Missandei piped up. "Something with the Bank and...the Faceless Men?"

Dany nodded.

"Your grace," the knight said, serious, "this was a threat I should have known about."

"There was no time, Ser Barristan, and we had no idea the Faceless Men would find out so quickly, it was something I thought I would have to deal with in Westeros, not leagues into the open sea beset by Iron bankrolled assassins."

Something clicked together inside her mind.

Poison, and the Faceless Men.

"I need to get Arya." She said quickly, calling out, "you four! I need a rowboat and sailors to make that enemy vessel sail."

She would need a better platform for Drogon to land on.

Ser Barristan continued to pluck arrows, one by one, Missandei carefully taking the discards and holding them away from her body as he worked.

She knelt before Rhaegal one last time, kissing the top of his head lightly.

"Gientan iksos tolmiot." Dany assured him. "Yne jumbarot?" She asked, hoping with everything inside of her that he would, before she rose and planned her next move.

Arya would need a sample of the poison, which meant Dany would need to travel with one of the deadly arrows. How would she protect herself?

She would need to wrap it, and preferably in something that would keep the poison inside of it. There was precious little left on the deck, and they had few enough containers in the best of circumstances. Dany took a step, searching, and her foot caught on the draped canvas that had been the mainsail.

_Sailcloth._ It was thick, hard to cut, and rubbed with wax to keep the worst of the water out. Dany dropped to one knee, unsheathing her sleek dagger as she examined the corner, trying to locate the easiest spot to cut into. The edges were folded and stitched, three times as thick as the rest of the sail. She ignored them, cutting into the middle part of the sail. The heavy cloth parted with little effort and Dany promised herself that she would thank the giftgiver properly when they were alone and no one they loved was in mortal danger.

Things as they were, she would need to remember that promise for quite some time yet.


	27. Interlude - The Red Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, out of practice, a lot out of practice, BUT here's some brand spankin' new content, less new if you're a member of House Danarya, but there's still new content in this update that you haven't seen yet.

Tired eyes opened, reflecting red in the dim gleam thrown off by a nearby lantern.

She hurt. Lord, did she hurt, but she still drew breath, and could continue her service as a priestess of R’hllor. She could still fight the Other, and stave off the Long Night. She turned her head slightly, narrowing all her focus down to the tiny, sputtering flame at the end of its trimmed wick.

It blazed, transforming the fickle glow into a comforting, even luminance. Jon had left her side when the storm first arrived, at her own insistence. Someone needed to keep the lone wolf at the helm safe. A glance at the burgeoning flame revealed a large furred body curled about the wheel, and two forms sheltered from the brunt of the wind and rain.

A pack, giving strength and reassurance to one another despite their passage through the deathly domain of the Other. She smiled to the flames as she saw the reborn Azor wrap his cloak around the Stark girl and the two shared a glad moment. His sacrifice was little, as her prince needed fur to stave off the cold as much as any servant of R'hllor, but the gesture meant much to his sister.

She steeled herself and sat upright, grimacing tightly against the pain that slashed through her side. The injury had been a bad one, but she was no simple shadow, no glamour bound shade. She was Melisandre, flesh and bone, and she would overcome this.

Ghost stirred at her motion, kept by her side at Jon’s command and his own cautious looks at the open deck outside. He  _ was _ fierce, but in his own, quiet, obedient way. Not nearly as prone as the silver direwolves to leap into danger without a thought to their safety. He was a reflection of his master. Jon deliberated, trying his best to reach a compromise before it escalated to bloodshed and life taking. 

Once he was cornered, and unable to reason any longer with his enemy, then the fierceness surfaced. He had already paid the price for peaceful inaction once. Ghost and his master were now of one savage mind when it came to keeping Jon alive.

She was their ally in this, so long as it did not conflict with her greater duty. If the toll keeping Jon on this side of the bridge to the realm of Light and Dark was too costly, she would need to let him go, for all their sakes.

Ghost burrowed beneath her outstretched hand and she gripped the coarse fur at his nape, drawing stability as she forced herself to stand. Their time away from the land bound minions of the Other was coming to a close. Beyond that, she glanced at the dancing flames. The Queen was coming.

The Dragon flew to a Wolf, yet again...

The ship lurched as a vicious gust hit the side, and she nearly fell before the amulet at her neck flared. Searing heat coursed through her as the muscles of her legs caught and held.

_ Flesh and bone, _ she reminded herself,  _ flesh and bone. _

She hoped that here, where dragons flew and the old magic that made the Wall ran strong within the earth, that flesh and bone would be enough.

**_A week prior…_ **

The currents in the air stilled, and the wind began to blow in a new direction. Ghost sat down beside her and raised his nose into the air, sniffing cautiously. A storm was coming, and sooner than she had thought. She had told Jon and Bran back at Hardhome, telling them she would be gone for seven days, and this was the morning of the last day. 

She had been marching since she left the caves, forgoing sleep and giving her rations to Ghost so that he need not waste time and energy hunting. The storm would not kill her, as it would another, but the tall snowdrifts it would bring would slow her considerably. She would not be able to return home in time for the attack she knew was coming.

At the base of the Wall, she found shelter in a rocky cave near the coastline and began building the fire she would need to keep the wolves from the frozen grip of the Other. Ghost’s ears perked as she gathered the sparse wood left buried in the ice. He dashed off to the waterline, anxious to find his pack as she set to work breaking the frozen crust off the logs. Melisandre could make ice burn, but it was taxing, and she needed her energy for other tasks.

She sparked the fire with a touch, coaxing it to flame with the gentle caress of a lover. It spread across the wood, blazing higher and hotter without consuming the fuel. 

There was a noise behind her, and she turned to see the three direwolves at the entrance, the unknown wolf more than twice the size of her brothers and barely able to fit inside the cave.

She smiled at the devastation such savage power could gift upon the Other. Truly, the Lord of Light had heard her prayers for aid.

“Stay, my friends,” she encouraged, “stay and warm yourselves.”

Reluctant at first, it was the exhausted Ghost who put them at ease. Too tired from their endless trek from Hardhome, he lay down next to her, stretching out his paws and body so his underbelly could absorb the heat of the branch shaped coals.

The other wolves followed soon after, first Summer and then...Nymeria, if she remembered correctly, the wolf of their lost sister, separated as the girl in grey fled northwards. The tiny cave was soon packed with wet fur, warm bodies, and hot flame. She watched the large animals doze as they regained their strength and body heat. The two from the south, fat and hale as they were from hunting in the southern forests untouched by the Other, would make the journey quickly. Ghost was a different matter. The direwolf did not have the reserves his brother and sister did, and their pace had been relentless in the bitter cold. He did not have the stalwart hand of the Lord of Light protecting him either. He would not make the run in time, not in the condition he was in.

Soon it would not just be the night that was full of terrors. A faint greenish white glow emanated from the satchel at her side. R’hllor had given her a solution.

"Then it is time."

In her satchel was also a small knife. She drew it across her hand, blood welled in the shallow cut. She squeezed, and two droplets fell into the coals.

“The night is dark, and full of terrors.” Her own voice spoke to her.

A duplicate appeared, a perfect facsimile in touch and appearance, but she was far more than touch and sight could know.

“Who are you?” She asked the shade.

“The Lord of Light provides.” Came the cryptic answer.

“What spells are yours to cast?”

“The night is dark and full of terrors, the Lord of Light provides.”

_ Not good enough. _ Melisandre waved her hand, dismissing the shade into a puff of smoke.

She should have known better than to hold back and cheapen the Lord of Light’s gifts, but blood here created something far superior to spells cast south of the Wall. There, a similar shade cost much more: hair, skin, blood and tooth. Her tongue probed gently at the missing molar.

No, this spell would need bone.

She slipped off a supple red boot, soft and whole despite walking in them through half the world. Pale skin contrasted against the dark stone of the cave floor, the second toe was already missing, taken during her training in the Shadow to cast the first spell of this kind. She could do without another, there would be no need of toes or feet if the Long Night came.

She placed the obsidian dagger near the fire, waiting for it to warm. It was so much easier to harvest a part of yourself with the help of R’hllor’s cleansing fire, both to distract from the act and cauterize the bleeding.

Easier still if she too had a little bag of fingerbones hung about her neck. 

The fire crept up to the knife, but the glass refused to melt or burn. She bent low and wrapped her fingers around the scalding hilt. She felt the heat, but not the burn, the Lord of Light would not harm her, so long as she did his work.

She spoke the words, old words, older than Valyrian itself.

Then she pressed downward, quick and clean, and felt skin and tendon separate as she cut through the joint.

Quickly, so as not to lose even a drop of life, she closed the incantation and threw a piece of her into the fire.

She was met by her mirror image, standing in the flames and looking at her knowingly.

_ Such shadows as I bring forth here will be terrible, and no creature of the dark will stand before them _ .

“How is your magic?” She asked the doppelganger.

“My magic is as strong as yours. Where is the candle?” Melisandre heard her own voice ask her. “We haven’t much time.” 

“Then do as I ask, or we will fail if I have not given enough.”

“As you wish.” Said the shade of herself. There was a snap of fingers and the bonfire climbed higher, startling Ghost awake. He looked at her second incarnation in startlement before rising and sniffing the new made flesh.

Finding nothing amiss, he sat back on his haunches and waited.

“Good.” Melisandre told the duplicate. “What spells are beyond you?”

“Only birthing the shadow is outside my power.”

“As we knew it would be.” Melisandre said.

“But I am not strong enough for what is to come.”

“No.” Melisandre sighed. “I will remedy that.”

She reached behind and unclasped the jewel bound at her throat, handing it over to the shade as she felt the world around her dim and blur to her now weakened eyes. Her joints began to ache with a familiarity she had tried to erase these last few centuries.

Melisandre gave the youth and power up freely. It served her Lord’s plans, and that was all that mattered.

The dress came next, and the supple red boots, until a youthful, red clad Melisandre stood waiting on a wasted old woman dressed in wrinkles alone.

The knife and satchel waited by the fire. A light glowed through the oilskin, and she stooped to retrieve it before placing the dagger back inside. In her hands was a glass candle from Valyria. 

Within the twisted dragonglass was an image of Jon’s quarters, of the hearth and the bed they shared.

“It is time.” She said to the shade, holding out the candle.

The youthful Melisandre touched a finger to the glass and vanished, startling Ghost and the other wolves, who growled fiercely and bristled.

“Be calm, my friends.” 

The growling stopped, but the hackles remained until Ghost padded toward her and nuzzled her free hand, his voiceless concern plain.

“I am fine, Ghost.” She stroked the white fur between his ears with bony, withered fingers. “You will not be if you make the journey back to your master the way we came.”

She looked to Summer, was he the wolf or the boy?

“Summer, do you know the way to your master?” She watched for...some sign of acknowledgement.

The grey direwolf howled, and his silvery sister joined in before the two dashed out of the cave and into the snow.

She supposed she would take that as a yes.

The candle still glowed in her palm, and she pressed it to the direwolf’s nose, feeling Ghost vanish from beneath her fingertips. The art of travel was inexact, but Ghost and her shade would arrive near enough to the candle in their quarters-

_ In  _ **_Jon’s_ ** _ quarters _ , she reminded herself.

They would arrive in time to aid in what was to come.

That was the important part. She, Melisandre, had other roles to play, other paths to follow now.

She tucked the candle into her satchel and shut it tight, wrapping the strings around before knotting them to keep water from soaking the herbs and powders she needed for her magics.

Melisandre waved her hand and the branch shaped coals guttered to ash. She stepped outside the cave and draped the satchel over a shoulder and across her body. She walked, barefoot in the snow, before wading slowly into the gently lapping water that flowed along the coastline of the Wall.

She walked until the water line crept up past the flat dugs of her breasts and began to swim, smooth, even strokes sluicing through the water as she paddled through the near darkness, the blue green edifice of the Wall her only company until the grey light of dawn outlined the southern bank.

A cramp took her mid-stroke, and she balled up against the discomfort, sinking down into the water, but it was no ordinary exhaustion.

Melisandre felt the tendrils of shadow rooting within her, twining and growing.

She kicked and pulled against the near frozen liquid until her head broke the surface and she gasped air.

A chuckle echoed in her head.

_ “You have lain with the blood of kings, you knew that this, and only this would come of it.” _

It was the voice of her Mistress, Quaithe, a voice she had tried to prove wrong, time and time again, but had always failed.

This time was no different.

Cold grey sunlight filtered from the eastern horizon, if the portents were right, this day would bring the dragon queen.

One half of the Prince that Was Promised.

She had left the other Azor Ahai to his fate, with as much help as she could spare.

Another fluttering kick and her feet and knees grazed tide tumbled rock. She started to walk upright, exchanging ice choked water for snow drifted air.

The cold did not bother her, her resilience was a gift from R’hllor, one of many.

Melisandre turned west, and set her path towards Winterfell.


End file.
